An Ode to Yettymon
This is a piece on my friend, Yetunde.
The first time I met, or rather — came across this babe was in my first year at Babcock Uni. We freshers from the Law Campus were being driven to the main campus in a little bus to complete the registration process, and I barely knew anyone there.
All of a sudden, Rihanna’s song BBHMM started blasting at the highest volume possible; competing with the sound of rushing wind outside the windows as we sped down the Iperu-Ilishan road. She was a couple seats ahead of me; so I didn’t see her face, but I heard a loud and confident voice with the faintest Irish accent as she said, “Hello?”
This was in 2015. And till date, it’s how I’ve always known Yetty to be — confident, sure and unafraid. The friend who I have the most arguments about existential concepts with. The friend most likely to say, “No, that’s not okay — you have to say something,” when I’m not being treated right. The friend who’s willing to stop in the middle of the road and pose beside a flowerbed for me to take a picture for my photography finsta. The sweet friend who’d slide into a man’s DM and make him fall for her, stat. The friend brave enough to flip the bird to life’s uncertainty, and move to a new country to chart out a different career path. The friend bold enough to publish whatever opinions she has just cause to believe. The friend who will not be cowed, and whose propensity to stand up for herself has gotten her into many a kerfuffle.
I love your love for God, Yetty. I love that you have such a pure and delightful view of Him and His love for the saints, and that you allow this consciousness to seep into your principles, actions and words.
As is the nature of life, time tends to whitewash memories — and so I barely have any recollection of all the times I found you annoying (but I’m very sure I did!) Rather, all I think of when you come to mind are the good things.
The beautiful things.
The jaunty keke trips to eat amala and abula at Sandra’s Bar in our NYSC days. The platter of twisty pretzel-ish donuts you brought for our collective convocation party at my house during the pandemic. The way you hugged me when I got back from camp, even though I was 70% sure I had COVID and had told you so. The way you brought a bag of coconut garri one semester because regular garri just didn’t hit the spot. The way you’d shyly crack open your prayer journal to share a word that God had given you for me. The way you never hesitated when I wanted to match outfits for no reason. The lemon flavoured banana cake that you, Foluke and I would bake in the transparent oven thingie whenever we’d visit for the weekend. The free cornrows and heartbreak-inspired haircuts I got from you. The eye-rolling while I obsessed over a crush, and the squealing in camaraderie when they happened to like me back. The many trips to my house, and the genuine friendship with every member of my family. The unexpected Yoruba full-kneeling when you met my grandma. The sneaking of contraband food and drinks into Babcock for the three of us. The midnight conversations that Foluke, you and I had — conversations that continue to define us for a lifetime. The Waffle / Shawarma Mondays that we three managed to make a tradition, despite the fact that we were usually broke in school. The phone calls where we’d go “remember that argument we had about so-and-so principle? Well, I now agree with you because—” The fact that you muster up a fake smile when someone calls you Yetty-Mama-One or sings ‘Yetunde Yetunde oh, Yetunde mi da?’ to you. The way you lose composure and bend over laughing when you find something way too hilarious. And the fact that your confidence in my ability to write, brought me into advertising.
Life is a funny thing, my guy. It has a way of blurring truth and making us doubt our own beauty and bravery; but it shouldn't be so. For you, at least. You remain powerful, resourceful, admirable and fine as hell — a model babe and a model friend.
I love you so much, okay? Enjoy your birthday!
(P.S: I'm not sure whether you know this, but I started calling you Yettymon because one day, my mum told me about how she and her gang back in uni had given their friend Henrietta the very Jamaican nickname, Hetty Mon. So I felt like it just fit. Hetty, Yetty. Abi?)
