A SWEET TALE OF A MOTHER: 5 Key lessons to learn from Life & Times of Mama Adeoya as told by her son, Akin Adeoya(Supported by 1960 Eagle Park Hotels)(


Special Online Mini Succes Book By Cerutti M.Osagie


· “The only love that I really believe in is a mother’s love for her children.”
Karl Lagerfeld
·“No man is poor who has a Godly mother.”
Abraham Lincoln
·“The Simple Path
Silence is Prayer
Prayer is Faith
Faith is Love
Love is Service
the Fruit of Service is Peace”
Mother Teresa

· “In a child's eyes, a mother is a goddess. She can be glorious or terrible, benevolent or filled with wrath, but she commands love either way. I am convinced that this is the greatest power in the universe.”
N.K. Jemisin, The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms

· “Being a mother is an attitude, not a biological relation.”
Robert A. Heinlein, Have Space Suit—Will Travel

· “The best place to cry is on a mother's arms.”
Jodi Picoult, House Rules
· “Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.”
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
· My mother's wonderful. To me she's perfection.


Of course she never discussed this delicate subject matter with me. Not once in all those years of many heart to hearts did we ever stray to that somber subject matter of the choices and options relating to the rites of passage. That possibility never featured. Somehow, in my subconscious mind, this woman was kind of going to simply go on living till... Don't get me wrong, I am very much like the legendary character, Osano the author, in Mario Puzo's greatest classic, Fools Die. Oh, I got you there, The Godfather was a watershed, but in the business of plumbing through the deep subconscious of man, woman and spirit, I will put my money on Fools Die. Don't be in a hurry to get it though if you are not the contemplative type, as you may not appreciate it. You should stick with The Godfather. But for the deep who, like Awolowo opined, love to call to the deep, Fools Die is it—Now to Osano: Long before he was confronted with the vista of imminent death, he had assured his good friend, narrator of the story, Merlin (the magician), that he could never be fooled by death. He would recognize him with his bumpkin bag in a crowd. I never forgot that, and it went on to shape my thinking about death. A man should not be afraid of death.

What if you are not afraid of death? What if you have achieved that state of mental and spiritual awareness which renders you a fearless individual who is able to confidently imagine yourself dead and even visualize your burial? Would that make it possible for you to apply same dispassionate thoughts to loved ones: your siblings, your wife or husband, your children or your parents? Those who make life meaningful? How many people have that courage to sit their parents down and calmly ask how they would like to be buried? Should I have done that? Would it have pleased her or would it have made her wonder about my motives? Who does not like to stay alive, especially, when one is blessed with relatively good health and you have the wherewithal to live a modestly comfortable life? How will a woman feel if her beloved son asked that question? But with the benefit of hindsight, I think I was just a coward. I think I should have had the courage to ask her where she would love to be buried. Then it would not have been a simple instruction passed on from trusted older siblings or uncles who lack the appetite to argue with her on such a sensitive matter. People who most probably shared her sentiments about the ideal resting place: ensconced among other paradise bound saints whose path to heaven is clearly delineated.
I would have challenged her. I would have asked what the real difference is about where you deposit the lifeless body of a soul that was heaven bound anyway. Why worry about a cadaver that would soon disintegrate to dust? Isn’t that why they say “dust to dust”? I would have tried to convince her that burying her in our hometown in Ifaki-Ekiti is more appropriate. Where we come from, there is an old saying: "Oge 'le isunko" (In Ekiti dialect, Oge, a type of bird that lives among people, does not sleep in the forest like other birds). Our people see the homeland journey either in old age or death as a final obligation of returning to one’s roots. I would have marshaled endless arguments to establish that fact. Under that barrage of logic, she would maybe have smiled gently and admonished me about the lack of wisdom in discussing matters that are beyond my understanding. "Hmmm, eyi ti o ye e lo po ju" (The things beyond your understanding are much). But I can understand.
Mum left the village early in life for an education and later for career. In all those years, her admiration for the country was obvious. The lingua in our home was always the Ekiti dialect. Sure we spoke Yoruba quite well and did well in English but mum insisted on communicating with us only in her native Ekiti dialect.
I remember one Igbo gentleman who operated a chemist opposite our residence in Rafiu Ipaye street, Ijesha, sometime in the 70s during a 3 year break living in Lagos, wondering why we were speaking a strange tongue. I was, as a kid particularly close to this Igboman and on a few occasions he had actually left me in charge of his chemist when he made a brief dash to get something. I would sit quietly and browse the wide array of drugs and wonder what ailments they were all meant to cure. I had never heard him speak Yoruba so I was surprised that he could detect the difference between the strain of the language we (me and my siblings) spoke to each other and the main Yoruba spoken by everyone else. I had no answer for the poor guy. But that never stopped me from visiting his chemist. I loved sitting in there and trying to puzzle out what each of those innumerable drugs was meant to cure. At home, we were very familiar with drugs. Mum, a trained Midwife, had a large basket of OTC drugs in the house. A visit to the hospital was a rarity. She was never intimidated by your usual daily illnesses and even some not so usual ones. Whenever there would be a medical emergency in the neighborhood, somebody would quickly refer them to Mama Nurse. Most of these treatments usually went for free. I remember a couple of occasions when a pregnant woman would suddenly go into labor in the other side of midnight and neighbors, in a panic, would start banging our door. Mum never failed to respond, sometimes the woman will be too far gone to be driven to the hospital and she would be forced to carry out her duty as a midwife right there in our sitting room after us curious kids would have been ordered to get back to bed.
Never mind, we would still sneak out and glue our ears to the sitting room door in the dark. There we would be, awe struck at the sometimes bloodcurdling sounds ushering in life to this earth.
I think her later Christianity simply complemented her naturally stoic nature. After her conversion and becoming a member of the Apostolic faith, a church that practices divine healing, she would never allow herself to be taken to the hospital, sometimes even when she was sick to the point of death. We would be so frustrated and angry, but she would keep repeating to us: I know my redeemer lives! Initially I welcomed this state of mind with fear and regarded it as recklessness. Her belief was always that if it was not yet time, then it was not yet time. Yet, the very idea was very difficult to grasp, to be comfortable with.
We had an Aunty, aeons ago it seems now, who was betrothed to one of my uncles. This was in the 70s when this my uncle, the No 1 disciplinarian of the family, had just joined The Apostolic Faith. The story (I never confirmed this from my uncle), was that she was the one who preached to and converted him to a born again Christian. They were a couple made in heaven. They used to visit us together. They would stay in some secluded part of the house and sing hymns. He had a natural dexterity with the mouth organ at that time, I don't know why he later abandoned it but I am sure he would have made Dbang green with envy (By the way I wonder why Dbang too, abandoned the musical instrument that first brought him fame and fortune). She was handsome, cool, and intelligent. She could charm a shark out of water.
At that time, she was said to be a highly respected top member of the church on account of her dedication, education and high Christian values. She was also a star member of the choir.
She was my heroine.
One day while playing football outside our flat at Rafiu Ipaye, I heard a noise in the hot afternoon. It was a desperate scream from inside our home. I rushed there to find out what was amiss and met the whole place in an uproar. Baba Tunde (another uncle) was screaming and hitting the wall with his fists shouting "Oh No, God NO!", Mum was inconsolable...the other kids were staring confused at the bedlam. All we kept hearing was "Folake, Oh Folake, Why???"
My heroine was dead.
I went into a room and just sat down, dejected, wondering why God kills good people? The story of her death was, like many things in this our family, a closely guarded secret that nobody spoke about. But my curiosity never waned. I think some 20 years later, when her (Aunty Folake’s) kid sister was getting married or something like that, somebody finally told me the real story: This younger sister of hers had developed tuberculosis. Worried about what to do, the parents shipped her off to Aunty Folake for care. Aunty Folake, prayer warrior that she was, commenced a prayer session with the belief that the young lady would be healed. Unfortunately, she probably shared cups or something like that with the young girl and eventually became infected. Unfazed, she increased the prayer rain. There was a long drawn struggle to turn the tide of the disease but gradually it began to take its toll. Throughout this deadly struggle, not once did Aunty Folake doubt the efficacy of her faith. Not once did she contemplate the possibility of seeking medical care in a hospital. The message was simple: If it is not yet time, then it is not yet time, but if it is time, then no power on earth can stop it.
But the young sister survived. She was taken to some hospital, treatment was administered and as I write she is married with kids. Now why do I make a long detour to tell this story? To prove that divine healing is fake? Certainly not! My mother's story is a strong supporter of that idea. The fact that the practice continued to gain more grounds says something about its power. Take Mum’s story. I suspect she first had a heart attack some 30 years before she finally succumbed this last April. We never had a diagnosis of this but the signs were all there. She was alone at home in Akure when she had gone there to run her small Chemist business after retiring to follow Dad home. At that time, Akure, yet Ondo state, yet unseparated from Ekiti, was home. The attack was massive, it almost knocked her out and she used to tell the story with effusive thanksgiving to God who spared her life. She said the pain was unbearable. But she did not succumb, she fought it, she crawled even when she could not call for help.
She survived this deadly illness without a visit to a doctor. By then, she had started attending The Apostolic Faith church in Akure. Members of the Church were invaluable in helping her recover. She used to mention names of these people one after the other.
"They were the people God sent to help me".
Oh the prayers were unceasing, the hymns did not stop and the thanksgiving went on forever. After surviving that experience and returning to full health, it was impossible to convince her that she needed medical help. Despite this example, I never thought I could take that route. Despite disagreeing with her on this and many other issues, one area where we both agreed was on the efficacy of prayers and the potency of divine intervention in human affairs.
Yes, I believe that prayer works. But I don't believe you have to pray for 6 hours, Jesus didn't do things like that. I don't think its right to scream, jump up and down, roll on the floor and utilize huge loudspeakers before God hears your prayers. Paul and Silas did not scream at the beautiful gate. They prayed with quiet confidence and the cripple walked. I also have a utilitarian approach to prayers: you pray when you have problems, when you don't have problems, leave God alone to solve the billions of problems all over the world. Just say your thanks all the time. My belief is not based on any pastor's admonition. Church is an occasional indulgence, but in the area of prayers I believe I have a special relationship with God. If not, why would he answer my prayers? I remember attending one church and the pastor went on and on about the fact that you have to be born again to enjoy the goodness of God. That God cannot hear your prayers if you are not a born again! And of course, born agains are people who don't sin. I became worried immediately. For I am clearly a sinner! But later I realized he was wrong, with very clear evidence, because mum used to tell me never to be afraid to tell God my heart’s desire. Tell Him your problem... One day, she realized I was so worried about a myriad of things, so she asked for pen and paper. On the paper she drew a big circle and put a dot in the middle.
"Akin", she said, pointing at the tiny dot, "this is your problem". Then pointing at the big circle, she affirmed, "This is your God. He is able to encircle all your problems effortlessly!”
It made sense to me.
So despite my inability, as of yet, to live the life she wanted me to live (born again, spirit filled...), I never had a problem asking God for things. And somehow, if I really wanted that thing, I kind of got them. I realized that God listens and hears prayers from anyone if they followed the right formula. Of course you have to believe that those prayers are going to be answered. You got to have your hands clean…your got to have the right motives I think. So good things come easy for those who ask? As simple as that? Believing that is no easy task for Christians who believe that suffering raises the spirit and that self-flagellation is how to get to heaven. I always wonder why many people who pray all the time have difficulty getting answers to their prayers; could it be that there is a Pharisee trait to their prayers? And that God sees through all the huffing and puffing? One day I hope to pray more often, especially for things that have no selfish objectives. Yes, that will be the day.
Do you know anyone who is never afraid? I do. She could be easily distressed, but afraid? Spit it out. Mum had this confidence. She radiated a calm and fearless nature. And when something that she dreaded threatened to happen, she met it with resounding prayers. She took the fight to the enemy! Even before she became a born again, sometime about 1976/77, I remember an interesting incident that happened. One of my uncles had gotten involved in a serious misdemeanor in school that resulted in criminal prosecution. What was supposed to have been resolved as a disciplinary problem within a secondary school was inexplicably criminalized. My uncle faced the possibility of jail! You should have been in our house at that time. It was something to behold. While all efforts were on to get legal support for her hapless brother, she organized a daily prayer session lasting hours! The sitting room became a mini church. That was when we started learning Christian hymns. Bible quotes would be flying left right and centre. I never really had the head for those quotes, but the songs... I loved them!
One of my favorites was:
He put me on his shoulders
And I fear no fall
He put me on his shoulders
And I fear no fall
He put me on his shoulders
And I fear no fall
The Joy of the Lord is my strength
When things were getting really excited, someone will start this mellow one just to cool things down…
Jesus is the sweetest name I know
He is always with me, I praise his holy name
That is the reason why I love him soooooo
Jesus is the sweetest name I know...
But when the evangelical fervor notches up again, another person will raise this one:
Baba o baba o se (Thank you father)
Olorun alagbara (God the most powerful)
To jiya tori ese mi (You that suffered because of my sin)
Lori Agbelebu aiye (On the cross of calvary)
Baba Ewa ba mi woooo (Father, think of it)
Iya Ewa ba mi woooo (Mother, think of it)
Ohun ti jesu se f' araiye (What did Jesus do to the world)
Ti won fi kan m' agbelebu (That made them crucify him)
Around this time, even if we were far away from the heart of Yorubaland, that monumental release by the Good Women's Choir of CAC in Ibadan was the rave in that house. The band, led by the venerable Mrs. D. A. Fasoyin, came out hot with that blistering release, Odun Nlo Sopin, 38 years ago in 1977 which entirely changed the rules of the game in Gospel music in Nigeria. That was the first gospel record to burst through to a secular audience (Oh! As far as I know that is). Anyway, at that time, it was as if there was no other music in our house. We played it so much that most of us kids knew all the lines by heart. I wonder what happened to that choir because I don't think I am aware of any other major release by them. My mum loved that song to smithereens. I am sure there would have been a contest for space around this time if Dad had been around. But for long periods Dad used to travel away for work and she would manage the house alone in that town, Sapele.
Dad’s long and frequent trips eventually took its toll. There was one particular instance, I remember, that was really bad. Remember there were no mobile phones at that time and few people had the luxury of a telephone at home. What this meant was that it was impossible to update your family if you were on a trip and plans changed. Dad was away for a really long time and the poor woman didn't have an idea of what was up. I think this was the only time I saw her really break down. She would sit on that balcony on 14 Fonseca road, Sapele and cry in the evenings.
That was the only time I ever saw her break down. She was a pillar of courage. Before and after, I never saw her like that, not even many years later when we lost one of the twins, Taiye, a lively young toddler who succumbed to convulsion at 2. That was years later in Lagos. Every evening she would sit in that balcony watching the gate intently, hoping Dad would walk in though that gate but late in the evening she would walk in frustrated. I am not sure why she was so worried. I think she missed the man so much...or was she afraid that he had run away? I will never know for sure now. Other Yorubas in the town and none Yoruba friends would come to console her. There was one Baba Ijesha who started another round of prayers at this time to address this particular problem. He would come in in the evening, plead with her to stop crying and then the prayer session would start. I think it helped.
There were some whose motives were not so grand. There was this friend of my Dad with the sobriquet of ‘For The Baba Ke’. I dont know how he got that but he was an Urhobo man who spoke fluent Yoruba. He had this big bike and one day when NEPA had struck he put on the bike’s light to illuminate the house. I don’t know if he did any other favors but that’s the only one I can recall except that he was such a jolly good fellow; never a dull moment when he was around. He too used to come often until one day he stopped coming suddenly. Mum later told me For the baba ke had made a pass at her and she had told him off and that was why he stopped coming. I sometimes wondered whether he thought beaming his bike's big light to illuminate the sitting room was enough to get special favors, but I did not say this to her. She was really very angry at the man.
Eventually Dad came back. Life went back to normal and after some time, it was time to move the family to Lagos. I think this was the resolution agreed to avoid the long absences since Dad was taking a bigger role at 33 Creek road, Apapa, headquarters of the massive Ibru organization. We would be leaving 14 Fonseca road and that was very painful. The house warehoused a lot of fond memories.
It was a quaint, old school bungalow in a large compound with rich fruits, orange, mango and pawpaw trees. That's where I learnt to climb and pluck fruits on trees. The building was fenced with a street to the left and the residence of a big sapele personage, Chief Obule, to the right. I knew several of his sons. One of them, now the nationally famous Charles Obule, was one of my early influences in literature and the business of serious reading. He later studied Law at the University of Benin. He was another of my childhood heroes: Well read, he has an intelligent opinion on almost everything and a true man of the book. Behind compound was a block of rooms. One was a standalone occupied by this huge lady who lived alone. I think she used to sell cooked food and I always wondered what her food would taste like. We used to speak while I perched on the fence or the fruit trees and peered down at her. She was kind and benign; treated me like an adult. She had a little child and I used to be so puzzled about where she got that child from because I never saw a man in that house and in my child’s mind I could not imagine how a woman could have a child on her own. But I liked her.
There was a Yoruba family in that compound too. There was the big Bro Ojo, a carpenter, who was the man of the house. He had two siblings. One was his step brother while the other was his brother. Both of them, if I remember well, just like their senior brother and benefactor, were also Ojos. I could never understand why so many brothers would bear the same name. Later I understood that this is an "amutorunwa" (from heaven) kind of name. Bro Ojo, the most senior, had the largest collection of Sunny Ade records I have ever seen. He bought every single album the artiste released and on Sundays, on his return from the usual Yoruba community pounded yam eating meetings, he would regale us with Sunny Ade's hits. Bro Ojo, the half brother, who is older than Bro Ojo, the youngest was a carpentry apprentice. He later got married to an Itshekiri and settled in Sapele too. I think he still lives there. Bro Ojo, the youngest, was in secondary school at the time and used to come on holidays. He was a bit laid back compared to the other two and was some kind of favorite kid in the house.
An interesting incident happened around this time: Now my Dad loved to have his beer. He had a group of friends that he socialized with. Oh, it was not your drink till you can’t see straight kind of thing. I think they were really very civilized and controlled. There was a set time for getting home and Mum never left the sitting room normally until he came. When she had to go sleep in the room before he arrived there would be a few minor caustic remarks, usually out of ears. I think he was generally very disciplined and just like I never saw my mum really afraid, I never saw my dad drunk. Except once. As part of preparations for moving to Lagos, the staff of the company he worked for in Sapele, Rainbow Limited (An IBRU company that manufactured Pepsi cola and Mirinda), there were 2 send-off parties by the Junior and Senior staff, the Junior staff preceding. That night, Dad finally arrived home maybe around or past midnight, and, unbelievably for my mum, he was very high! Infact, I think he had to be escorted home by some of his friends. That was it for my mum. She went ballistics! She upbraided him angrily and I don't know what else except that for 40 years after that, he did not taste beer and that was the end of his late night carousing. He would keep a bottle of whiskey at home and sip a tot or 2 while he listened to the news at 9.
Forty something years later, he declared that having attained senior citizenship, he was now entitled to his regular bottle of Odeku having paid his dues! Oh Mummy had her protests but we all supported Dad on that one and today he never fails to remind me of his box of stout and the occasional wine or bottle of spirit. At over 80, I think he holds his drink pretty well! Mum and some of my siblings don’t support this, but what could they do? An 80 year old man should know what is good for him. Usually when those issues arose, the siblings are usually split into 2: My sister, Nike, my brother Ayo and me(The first 3) on one side; Dupe, Bola and Femi(The last 3), they were the strong Christians on the other side; Joke, who is next to me, has been neutral forever.
As we prepare to commit this strong woman of faith to mother earth this Friday, I can only ask my friends to help me celebrate her life and the powerfully positive influence she has had on me and my family. She was not perfect. She had her faults, but if I had to come back 10 times, and I had the power to choose, I will still choose her as my mum.
The most important lesson I learnt from her, and my father, by extension, is that you don't need all the money in the world to be happy. Oh, you had to work hard and make money but never ever cut corners. I can't remember these folks sitting us down to lecture us about morals as such; it was lessons learnt through their personal examples. Till he retired, my dad always treasured his Sanyo black and white TV with the closable screen. We, the kids, having gone out to experience colored TV in neighbors’ homes will come back groaning to our Sanyo. Whenever we mentioned this to Mum (You dare not mention that to Dad), she would say we should face our books. Mum never treasured personal possessions. Personal possessions were for convenience never for ego or self-aggrandizement.
Now let me solve the riddle in my last story. Many people who
know me today will not imagine the kind of chimney I used to be. I easily quaffed 3 packs of cigarettes a day—that’s 60 sticks--and that’s if it was not a club day. If I was going to be doing an all nighter, you can add another 2-3 packs just to get me through the night. It was also the best way to end a meal. In the morning, as I woke, I stepped into my personal sitting room, just opposite my room where a cauldron of steaming freshly made coffee would be waiting for me, and I would start the day with half a dozen sticks, working my way through CNN and other news networks, just to get going for the day. In the office, the only place where smoking was permitted was in the CEO’s office, my office. I would knock off a pack or 2 at work. Some of my executives who smoked knew that they dare not smoke at their duty posts so they would pretend that they had something to discuss with me. Once I lit up, I would naturally offer them the pack. And can you imagine the joy boldly etched on their faces?
I used to wonder how anyone can work his way through a bottle of beer, a glass of wine or the ice encrusted olive called Black label without the accompanying stick of cigarette. I thought non-smokers were boring. One of my first bold efforts to get married was truncated because she tolerated my smoking and my mum could not understand why. "How can she let him (that is, me) continue to smoke like that?” Of course there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. She was a starry eyed 23 year old and I was a man of the world in my mid-thirties. Even though I loved her so much, I was not going to concede my smoking, drinking or clubbing. On a moral plane she tried to caution me but that’s all she could do.
Mum commenced a war of attrition against her. She said “With a wife like that, Akin will never stop smoking”, I resisted. She warned me that she would never stand for it (marriage to her); I told her I was old enough to marry whom I wish. I could have gone ahead to marry her, against Mum’s wish, but I was afraid of the consequences for her, for my mum too—Bimbo (that’s her name) had promised that she was not going to accept any more "nonsense" once the knot was tied. These were two very strong, determined women and I was not going to be unwittingly factored into an unpredictable calculus. The utilitarian in me took over. Fortunately she is married today, and with kids, to, perhaps a much better man. But the pain of loss lasted for very long. And it will take many years, again under very fierce pressure and support from my mum, before I finally found a woman to marry me!
I never saw anything wrong in the smoking habit. I was never convinced by the moral argument. On the health issue, I used to say, there are a thousand ways to die, choose one...If you wanted to use the bible, I would ask you to show me where it was said that you should not smoke in the bible.
Even when I decided, finally, to stop, I found out it was impossible. My constant sparring partner was Jide Ogunleye. Jide Ogunleye, about 2 years younger than me, was the smartest digital media person I ever knew, till now. He was an absolute genius. He had this uncanny ability to convert any idea to reality in real time, right there as you are describing things to him, he is getting you similar stuff online or he is sketching, on his computer, something that begins to resolve it for you. We met on the field. He was working as a consultant to MTN on the Yhello youth project of the late 2000s. I was leading PR team for MTN on the effort as MD of Marketing Mix. From the first moment, I found that I could not resist him. He was just too hot to handle.
We went on to form a company and he moved his operation to a section of my large Toyin office space. That began one of the most stimulating professional relationships of my career. But it ended too soon. He had a BP issue, we did not know how bad it was, and we did not know the connection with smoking especially.
One bright Sunday morning, his heart gave way. He was buried a week later. It broke my heart. That one, I cried all the way from my house, then, in Omole Estate to the Ikeja General hospital. I cried, screamed and smoked bitterly as I drove like a fiend out of hell. But it passed too. That was 2008.
This did not stop me from smoking!
But one day, very early in the morning, I woke up to a knock on my bedroom door. I had an august visitor. My mum had popped in unannounced.
"I want to see you" she announced. Though an early riser, it was unusual of her to come wake me up at that early hour. She knew my cycle.
"Ok mum", I got up, cast one longing eye on the freshly opened pack of St. Moritz on my bedside cabinet but I knew that was a no go area. I promised myself to return to it later.
We sat down in my private sitting room.
"Akin, listen to me very well”, she started, "I have tried hard to reason with you on your smoking habit, but you have never stopped. I believe that you may even want to stop, but the devil will not want you to. Today, I want to tell you that God is greater than the devil. I have prayed for you and God has promised to give you the strength to stop. There is no need to pray about it anymore... Ogun ti se (victory has been achieved)...Now you will place your hand here (her thighs) and promise me never to smoke again".
I resisted a bit but eventually I succumbed, not totally though. I made a solemn promise: "Ok mum, I will NEVER smoke CIGARETTES again".
It should have been: I will never smoke again. Till this day I have never smoked a stick of cigarette again. And that's close to a decade now. I cheated her for a while. For 3 months after I stopped, I had this funny dream where I will go hide myself in a deserted place and light up a stick. It was always so satisfying. But the environment was always dark and I always felt so sad at the end of the smoke. But it was just a dream and after some time it fizzled out.
But I cheated a bit with other things occasionally: Whenever I travelled I would do a big fat cigar in my expansive Atlanta home or if I was in London, get driven by my friends to Brixton for some smoking indulgence, no cigarettes though. And then I noticed that my blood pressure was always up whenever I travelled abroad and this helped me find the nexus between smoking and the health of my heart. Finally, I cancelled out smoking, totally, from my list of enjoyments. And today, I live to tell the tale.
She is that kind of mother that even heaven hardly makes any more these days. I salute her spirit, her courage and her loving memory.



The first and greatest thing I EVER learnt from my mum is power of prayers and that no matter what we gong through, there is nothing that prayer cannot solved, she is so sure of the power of prayer, and all her life she prayed till she left to the great beyond. She believed in the Holy Book. According to the Bible, the power of prayer is, quite simply, the power of God, who hears and answers prayer. Consider the following: 1) The Lord God Almighty can do all things; there is nothing impossible for Him (Luke 1:37). 2) The Lord God Almighty invites His people to pray to Him.
To go practical, one day she called us and drew a big circle with a dot in the middle and said al our problem is like the big circle and the dot is God watching, so anytime we in hitch we must call on him, He watches, till date, that has been one of my life philosophies and it helps me a lot


''All her life she believed a life of let your yes be yes and your no no, she tells me all the time, learn to say no sometimes son, never kill yourself on things you can’t do. Such attitude of principle is what the young generation must learn from. Over the year I have come to realize that  a  principle is a law or rule that has to be, or usually is to be followed, or can be desirably followed, or is an inevitable consequence of something, such as the laws observed in nature or the way that a system is constructed. The principles of such a system are understood by its users as the essential characteristics of the system, or reflecting system's designed purpose, and the effective operation or use of which would be impossible if any one of the principles was to be ignored. Principle is vital for life, not when one say morning and you look your watch if really it is, my mum love principled life''


''Even though my mum did not attain stuffs like master degree or PHD she so believe in power of good education, she ended as senior nurse but all her life she preached on need for decent education for us. Imagine a world without schools and colleges! Impossible, right? No matter how much we hate waking up early for school or studying all night for those tests and exams, we all know that education is very important. Now, I am not saying that an uneducated man has no chance of being successful or an educated man will surely do well in life, and that I LEARN FROM HER
''It was my mum who first told me that good education    is what you need if you want an answer to your ‘what’s’ and ‘haws’ and ‘where’s’. It helps you understand the world you live in. You get to know more about your surroundings as well as the whole world through subjects like history, geography, science etc. and that education is what saves you from being exploited and fooled. We live in a country where we enjoy a number of rights and freedom.  It is easier to take advantage of innocent and illiterate people. They may be trapped into signing false documents or be deprived of some right which they have because unlike an educated person they are not well aware of their rights and freedoms''


''Unknown to many people, most of my perceived business acumen I learn from my mother, she was not into big business but she was blessed  with business acumen I mean  the keenness and quickness in understanding and dealing with a business situation in a manner that is likely to lead to a good outcome. I learn business acumen from her and today I tell young ones that one way you can win is  to read wild both Online, offline, and everywhere in between!  Read books. Read magazines. Read newspapers. Read junk mail. Read news stories via Smartphone apps. Read blogs. Download free reports off of websites. Scan the content on social media sites such as LinkedIn, Twitter, and Face book.
When you read, scan for content that will help you better understand today’s business environment, give you a deeper understanding of industries you support, and educate yourself on new technologies and emerging marketing practices on the web. When you scan the seemingly random magazines and junk mail that comes across your desk, you’ll often find marketing ideas, best practices, innovative ideas on how to use social media for building corporate brands and promoting products and services online, new resources for event planning and meeting coordination, how to use software programs more efficiently, business and industry trends and economic factors affecting business and markets. The list is endless.


'As kids growing up, my mum was quick to tell us to desist from life of sugar coated mouth or eye service etc  ...by that I MEAN To cause to seem more appealing or pleasant: a sentimental treatment that sugarcoats a harsh reality. OR to make (something difficult or distasteful) appear more pleasant or acceptable...she tells us the pain of sugar coat that
Sugar-coated messages are in bad taste. Today in my line of business or in survey I advice people to ask for straight talk on all issues. They must not take artificially-sweetened words that supposedly will help the medicine – that is, the tough messages – go down. When you sugarcoat communication, you’re superficially making something attractive or palatable. That’s inauthentic, which can cause more problems than the proverbial putting lipstick on a pig, I can assure you this fact I got from my late mum''

About the author of this mini book

Czar of letters,CERUTTI MIKE OSAGIE , ‘The African wordsmith’ is the very definition of a grass to grace successful people /renaissance or modern day luxury writer, who is continually setting standards for global youths on need to apply massive work ethics, excellence and dedication to their various filed of calling.

Originally a sport writer, before being converted by Africa’s foremost publisher, Chief Nduka obaigbena, Chairman and Editor-in-Chief of THISDAY newspaper, to a people/life style writer, Cerutti  Osagie has since expanded his talent to deeper area of writing from style, to branding, to business, inspirational, to politics and is today carving a niche as a premier luxury wordsmith, in addition to being author of  Five books in Amazon Books.com

A well travel connoisseur of successful brands, from the word go is has been in the wings and is the current award winning best style writer, best celebrity prolific writer and teens favorite young charity personality of the year on account of his tireless effort of bring world attention on plight of the blind and orphanages in the society.

An avid reader and prolific writer, he, remains one of the few success stories writers of the rich and famous globally and has written on a large number of them over the last few years, his online blogs: www.worldindsutryleaders.blogspot.com/.com and http. Is highly oxygenated reference point for those who wish to read on the world famous brand names/product daily, manifold people from all over the world go to his site to see what is new in the beautiful world of luxury. He also contributes regularly for CNN ireport and writes weekly for Nigerians’ top business journal, BUSINESS WORLD every Monday

He can be reached on for speaking engagement or advisory role via: +27 7O42631895 youngchief@yahoo.com


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