By Akintayo Abodunrin
I grew up knowing her simply as Iya Feyi — Feyikemi, being her first child. She was not ‘Mother’, ‘Mum’ or ‘Mama’ to us. She was Iya Feyi, the name most people called her in line with the Yoruba tradition of addressing married women by their first child’s name.
Until her final breath on the evening of Sunday, August 3, 2025, she remained Iya Feyi or Aunty Abi to me and my siblings. Her grandchildren also appropriated the names, in addition to Grandma.
Iya Feyi, Abigail Oluyinka Abodunrin (Nee Amusan), was a down-to-earth, hardworking, forthright, and generous woman who left a lasting impression on everyone she encountered during her 72 years on earth. I am deeply proud to call her my mother. A child could not have asked for a better mother than Iya Feyi, who devoted her entire life to her children and her Creator.
Growing up in a communal compound in Ode-Aje, an old part of Ibadan, I was a somewhat spoiled child with an overattachment to my mother. Iya Feyi had a shop at Agodi Gate market and usually returned home late at night. No matter how late she returned, she bathed me nightly under the tap at the back of the compound before taking her bath. She never compromised on personal hygiene until old age, and if allowed, she would bathe hourly once there was water. When her grandchildren try to avoid bathing, she would warn them, “Lo we kiakia aije be, maa gbo e daada,” meaning, “Go bathe now, or I’ll give you a thorough scrub.” They knew what her thorough scrub meant, so they raced to the bathroom.
Because of Iya Feyi’s then business, I was the only one with her. My two older sisters were with my grandmother, the late Mama Marian Tinuade Amusan, while my brother had not arrived. However, she couldn’t take a hyperactive child to her shop, so she usually left me in the care of Iya Folake, my paternal grandfather’s partner.
But I was becoming rascally. Once I had bathed and eaten breakfast, I left the house and roamed the neighbourhood with my friends until evening. To curb this, Iya Feyi and her older sister, Lady Evangelist Felicia Olubunmi Ogunmefun, a passionate educator who co-founded Trinity Home Nursery and Primary School in Ojoo, Ibadan, with her late husband, Pastor Emmanuel Olufunmilade Ogunmefun, decided it was best that she take me in with her. Of course, I didn’t like this. I was overattached to Iya Feyi and cried endlessly. The young me, who didn’t understand the practicality of that arrangement, saw it as a betrayal and punishment. But I was the better for it.
Iya Feyi was a tough woman who never spared her tongue. She rarely beat but would draw tears from your eyes with her words. She practised tough love to ensure we turned out well. Despite her hard exterior, Aunty Abi was extremely caring. She never punished us by denying us food the way some native Ibadan women did. One of her sayings was: “Omo ti ebi ba pa o jale” (a hungry child will steal). You won’t visit her Agodi Gate shop without having a meal or drink. A woman sold fried yams (dundu) and beans opposite her shop, and she fed many of her visitors with this. As she grew older and stopped selling drinks, she stocked several items at home, including soap bars, foodstuffs, chin-chin, kulikuli, and biscuit packs to entertain visitors. You will not come to our house and leave empty-handed. You will eat and go with an item.
My mother was generous to people and extended the same treatment to her Creator. She served the Lord unstintingly with her resources. She paid her tithes, offerings and association contributions without complaint. We counted her daily earnings for her when she returned from the shop. She would remove her ‘igbanu’ (a pouch for keeping money favoured by traders tied around her waist) and hand it over to any of us to count the money. She trusted us, and we never gave her cause to think otherwise. In the mid-to-late 1990s and early 2000s, she would return from the shop on a Saturday with thousands of naira, attend church the next day, and return with just a few hundred. Exasperated once by what I assumed was her wastefulness, I challenged her: “You make all this money during the week, go to church on Sunday, and it’s all gone by the time you return. Your business won’t grow if you continue spending this way.” She replied, “I am a pastor’s child, and I know how my father struggled to raise us. Some people don’t know that pastors and the church need support, but I know, and I will do what I can to support the household of faith.” I never followed up with her again, and her business did not collapse.
The Yoruba’s description of hardworking women who also doubled as breadwinners as ‘Obinrin bi Okunrin’, aptly describes my Iya Feyi. She was our mother and father rolled into one. She was a struggling mother who ensured we never lacked anything. We did not usually get our requests immediately, but she always met our needs. There is a strong and uncommon bond of love and support between her and her siblings: Mrs Felicia Ogunmefun, the late Professor Dorcas Olubanke Akintunde and Pastor Philips Aderemi Ajibade. They transferred that affection to us, her children, as they generously supported her in raising us. Happily, that bond remains strong between us and our cousins.
Iya Feyi’s memory was prodigious. She was the family historian who knew all about her parents’ lineages. She knew far-flung uncles, aunts, cousins, grand-uncles, and others that her siblings did not. She knew our exact relationship with every relative and would regale you with stories of our grandparents and great-grandparents. She had a knack for arithmetic, particularly mental math, and would calculate vast sums offhand. Sadly, I didn’t take this from her. I struggle with calculations to date.
Thankfully, I share her taste in eclectic music. Iya Feyi listened to diverse traditional Yoruba musicians, including Fatai Olowonyo, Tatalo Alamu, Dauda Epo Akara, Ayinla Omowura, Elemure Ogunyemi, Orlando Owoh, King Sunny Ade, and Ebenezer Obey. We would listen to their songs and discuss the morals behind them. She also loved Christian music and introduced me to old-timers like Lakin Ladebo, S.O.Akinpelu and Bisi Adeoye, among others. She had Uncle Yemi, an Ekiti man who owned a record store near her shop, create mixtapes of Orlando Owoh and Ebenezer Obey for me. She not only loved music but also sang beautifully. She and my late father, Moses Akinyoola, met in the choir of Christ Apostolic Church. Most nights, after our 9 pm prayers, they would retire to their room and begin singing songs from the CAC hymnbook. They both knew more than half of the CAC hymns offhand and would continue late into the night; he in his deep bass and she in her alto. Unknown to them, our neighbours had grown accustomed to their nightly recitals and would take them up if they didn’t perform.
Iya Feyi loved to pray just as she enjoyed singing. Some people called her Iya Aladura because that was all she did. When you visited with her, she prayed. If you called her on the telephone, she prayed for you. If you gave her a gift, prayer was what she gave back. Iya Feyi saw prayer as a way to pour out her heart to God, so she never held back. She would start by praying for my eldest sister, her husband and children. She then moved to my second sister, my brother, and me. She also always prayed for her siblings, their children and families. Her prayers can sometimes be lengthy, and some of us occasionally doze off. When she became poorly after surgery, she never stopped praying, even as pain wracked her body.
My attachment to Iya Feyi never quite left me. When I left home and relocated to Lagos in late 2008, my colleagues never understood why I ran back to Ibadan every weekend. Later, when she realised that this was not sustainable, she assured me that I didn’t have to return home every weekend. However, I continued going to Ibadan fortnightly or monthly until 2011, when I got married. Even at that, my family always seized every opportunity to return to her in Ibadan until she relocated fully to my sister Feyikemi’s place in Lagos around 2018. Then, our routine changed. We spoke nightly on the phone at 9 pm. If I hadn’t called her first because of work, she would have called me. Her opening line was always ‘Oko mi Akanbi’. My mischievous children and one of their maternal uncles later adopted the same. ‘Oko mi Akanbi’, they would hail me in light moments.
When she became poorly and needed to rest, I called my second sister, Abiola, who had by then become her primary carer every morning and evening, to speak with her. Our calls continued until the Thursday preceding her Sunday passing. Her voice was very weak, and her speech slurred. I steeled myself for whatever outcome. Everyone – her biological children, our uncles, cousins, stepsiblings and friends- had ensured we gave her the best medical treatment. But that Thursday after the call, I told my wife Iya Feyi was in God’s hands. We were praying for divine healing, but God had his way. It was the last time I heard her voice. She was asleep when I called in the morning and evening on Friday and Saturday. I didn’t call on Sunday mornings; I usually waited till the evening. I had considered calling that Sunday morning, but I can’t explain why I didn’t. It wouldn’t have mattered, though, because, according to my siblings, Saturday evening was the last time she spoke before she passed on Sunday evening.
My wife always marvelled at the way Iya Feyi treated her children, especially me. She wondered why Iya Feyi would buy biscuits for a grown man when we were dating. She pulled my leg endlessly over this. But biscuit wasn’t the only thing she sent. Iya Feyi always sent fufu, fish and other items to us through my siblings. She sent kulikuli and chinchin if anyone was coming my way from Nigeria.
My mother’s parents, the late Pastor Moses Ajibade and Madam Marian Tinuade Amusan, left some property for her and her siblings. Annually, when they collected the rent from the property, they shared the money. She would pay tithes from her share, give some offerings and use the rest to buy foodstuffs to be shared among her four children. “Awon obi mi o fi gbese sile fun wa, emi naa o ni fi gbese sile fun yin.” (My parents didn’t leave debts for us; I won’t leave debts for you, too,” she was fond of saying. True to her words, she didn’t leave any debt for us.
I celebrate a mother like no other. Witty, hardworking, prayerful and full of integrity. I hold fast to one of her favourite prayers: “Loju mi, leyin mi, koni baje fun yin” (In my lifetime and after my passing, it shall be well with you). I had a mother. Her name was Abigail Oluyinka Abodunrin. And what a mother she was.
*Abodunrin is a journalist.
