I Almost Waited Until He Was Gone To Say This.

Yesterday, I posted something on my wall, something that has been sitting on my chest for a while.I said: <blockquote>"People have beautiful things to say about you, but they will wait until you die to say it."</blockquote>I meant it as a question to all of you.But today, life turned it into a question for me.So I am not waiting. In the Department of History and International Studies, University of Ilorin, Nigeria. There is a name that needs no introduction, but only if you were there to witness it.The 100 levels will ask you:<blockquote>"Who is the guy called African child?"</blockquote> And you will smile because the question is funny, because you remember the first time you asked it too.I remember sitting in that lecture hall, present in body, disappearing in spirit.History felt like a wall I kept running into them. The course felt pointless. I was not failing academically. I was failing quietly, in the deeper place where passion lives, the place where "why" lives. I was looking at the exit more than the blackboard. Nobody knew. I did not talk about it. I just carried it.Then African Child entered the picture.He would pull me in. Text me. Send materials. Take me through things I was confused about. When he talked about history, I remember thinking:<blockquote>Sir. Please. Come down to my level. 😂😂😂</blockquote>Because of the way he broke things down, he made the past feel alive and relevant. It was not a performance. It was a genuine and deep love for the subject. Slowly. Without me even noticing. My level began to rise to meet his.But here is the part people do not always talk about. "African Child" was not just an academic guide. He was an accountability mirror.My phone would ring, he would read and engaged my post on socials, and before I could even say hello, he would already be in it:<blockquote>"Guy. What are you doing? Are you okay? </blockquote>That is not what you should be doing. Delete it. Concentrate on your niche. "Do this."Direct. Sharp. Caring. All three at the same time. When I did something right, he would say that too.<blockquote>"Guy. I am seeing your giant strides. I am proud of you."</blockquote>Both. The correction AND the celebration. The push AND the belief. In the same relationship. From the same person. Do you know how rare that is?Most people give you one or the other. They either always celebrate you, which makes you soft, or they only correct you, which makes you doubt yourself. He gave me both. And that balance, that careful, honest, deliberate balance, shaped me more than any lecturer ever could. Some days I texted him because something felt off. Because I needed the perspective of someone who had already walked the path I was still navigating. Because I needed to hear from someone who saw me for who I truly was, not who I pretended to be. Sometimes I didn't even have to reach out. He would make the first call.<blockquote>"Guy. What is going on? </blockquote><blockquote>What's your project on?</blockquote><blockquote>Who's your supervisor." </blockquote> That. Is a mentor.A person who actually shows up. His legacy is not small.In this department, names are written in the records. Names are spoken with a certain weight. Scholars who blazed a trail for the rest of us to follow."African Child" is one such name. One of the best historians and international analysts this institution has produced (for me). Someone whose influence on students, ideas, and public perceptions of Africa and its place in the world is still felt today. Still expanding. Legacy doesn't wait for you to die to matter. You can feel it even when the person is still standing in front of you.I felt it today. This afternoon, I walked out of one of our lecturer's office. Guess who I saw.Of course, my boss. African Child. Standing right there, as if the universe had quietly scheduled our meeting for the right time.We talked. We caught up; he looked at me in the way that only someone who has seen you grow from your most uncertain version can, and he said: <blockquote>"Guy. You can receive an A for your final-year project. You can nail your special paper. You have what it takes. Here is what you should tighten. Extend your sources to this specific number. Here's what you need to add.</blockquote>And then, just as we were wrapping up, he said something that made me smile deep inside: He's starting his master's program at this university again. As if that wasn't enough, he turned to me and said:<blockquote>"Just message me, and we will look into more things together." 😂</blockquote> So, here's what I want to say. Yesterday, I asked everyone why we wait until someone's death to honor them.Today, I'm choosing not to wait.To my boss, mentor. <blockquote>The African Child — Luke Daramola Idowu:</blockquote> Thank you for your corrections, which stung and then shaped me.Thank you for sitting with me during those seasons when I was too quiet for my own good. Thank you for seeing "A" in me before I finished my first draft. Sometimes I consider how I write. How I think. How I conduct a conversation about Africa, history, and ideas, and I see your fingerprints on it. The way you demonstrated curiosity. The way you refused to make laziness an excuse. The way you treated knowledge as something worth preserving and passing on. I've learned from you. Because of you, I was able to relearn, and I'm still learning.I have not arrived. I want to be honest about that. But I'm further along than I would have been, and you deserve a large part of the credit. I hope the department doesn't forget your name. I will never, ever forget what you poured into me.Welcome back, brother. 🌍✊We will accomplish great things together. That one I'm holding onto.As always, "It is not goodbye, but see you again." To everyone reading this: <blockquote>Who in your life deserves these words today while they can still hear them? Do not wait.</blockquote>

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