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I searched for the airtime voucher I had bought the previous day and kept in my bag. I looked everywhere -in my purse, my pocket, in my heart; there was not a trace of it. I gave up and decided to check my e-mail instead.

There was one from my sister-in-law that read: “Hi Funlola, sorry to bring you sad news. Prof Fafunwa died today”. I felt stabbed – in my heart. And so, with my notebook on my lap, I began to search again. I searched for Fafunwa in my heart.

I was sitting amidst other graduands, having just received a Master of Arts degree in linguistics, as I listened to the citation of this teacher of teachers. He was receiving a doctoral degree (honoris causa) from the University of Ife, then, one of the homes of the (now mostly exiled and disillusioned) Nigerian literati. I felt pride, glowing pride, that I was sharing the day with one of the people who made it happen for me. He was part of my story.

So later in the foyer of Oduduwa Hall, in the midst of the handshakes, the hugs and the camera lights, I walked up to him in my red academic gown to ask for a picture with him. He looked at me quizzically as if to say, “what have I to do with you now?” He did not recognise me. I told him I was one of his “6YPP” kids. His expression changed – surprise, disbelief, pure joy!

Like one who just found a treasure, he beckoned to his wife, cameramen and other bystanders to “come and see”. Here was proof of his labour, proof that all that was read in his citation was not fabricated. I felt pride as we stood together smiling for the cameras. I was part of his story.

My notebook remained on my lap as I continued my search in my heart. It was the valedictory ceremony at the end of the 6YPP. I was amidst other “graduands” in a red dress with a white yoke that mother had bought specially for the ceremony. We were smiling for the cameras with Fafunwa sitting at the centre surrounded by his team of researchers and all our teachers. Later in the evening, mother sent me to get some medication from the neighbourhood pharmacy. I still had on my new hair-do, my new red dress and my 6YPP badge as the pharmacy attendant asked me what the occasion was and what 6YPP meant.

I explained that the Six Year Primary Project was set up to determine whether children were better off being taught in their mother tongue or their second language, in this case English. I explained that I was part of the project and we had just graduated that day.

The pharmacy lady was impressed and I felt pride. It was one of my earliest recollections of what it meant to be proud. I was proud of myself and of my favourite teachers, Mrs Ilori and Mr Oyatoye. I was proud of my mother who bought my red dress. I was proud of Prof Fafunwa and his team of researchers. I was proud of my school, St Stephen’s ‘A’ Primary School, the oldest public school in Modakeke.

With my notebook still on my lap, I continued my search. This time I searched for the pride that I felt that December day at Oduduwa Hall. I searched for the hope that was fired in us on that day of our graduation from elementary school. I searched for the pride that I felt that night as I talked to the pharmacy attendant who was proud that I could express myself so clearly at age eleven. Like my airtime voucher, it was all gone! Instead, I felt shame – shame that, forty years after the 6YPP, Nigeria’s public school system was dead!

My heart bled for the Nigerian child who may never experience the hope and the glory we felt that graduation day. My heart bled for the Nigerian public school system that has been run down by shameless folks who make unjust decrees. My heart bled for a nation that has turned from breeding young stars to breeding charlatans, street hawkers, militants and kidnappers.

It is little wonder that Fafunwa’s heart died that October day. Did he resolve that he couldn’t take any more after witnessing the celebration of fifty years of national failure?

I stood up. Yes, Fafunwa is dead. And, oh yes, my pride is gone! But Fafunwa may yet live, if there is one researcher out there who can hear the cry of the Nigerian child, if there is one governor, one lawmaker, one teacher, one minister of education, one mother, one faculty of education that can say ‘yes’ to the Nigerian child.

And on behalf of the Nigerian child and of my 6YPP colleagues, I say to Babs Fafunwa, “Good night”

P.S

As of the time of writing, I was not aware of President Jonathan’s scathing criticism of Prof Fafunwa’s works. With due respect to Mr. President, I’d like to add that we need to cultivate the culture of honouring true statesmen, not tearing down their achievements with words or our own inaction. When a child sits on the shoulder of an elder, he can see far (Akan proverb).

Funlola Olojede writes from Cape Town.