Agbopla 
a rueful morning in May 2000, I opened an e-mail message that 
sent shivers down my spine. The information was terse and unceremonious: Agboola 
Oshinowo has passed on. We all know that death is an unnegotiable state of terminality. 
But, in the case of Agbo, an eerie deliriousness overcame me as I sat staring at the 
computer. The shock that I experienced was assuaged by a fleeting comfort, which was 
induced by denial. No. This message would soon be retracted; Agbo did not die. In the 
end, after speaking with Kolade, I resigned myself to that finality. Agboola Oshinowo, 
a warm, personable friend, a disciplined and motivated colleague, a loving mother 
and forceful but supporting wife, was no more. We inquire in vain why she had to be 
plucked at that point. We do not have the privilege of interrogating death, or the 
mystery of existence itself. But we have the capacity to commiserate, to memorialize and 
perpetuate the excellent deeds of a quiet but powerful woman. 
I was forced to contend with Agbo at Yaba College of Technology in the mid-sixties. But 
it wasn't until we arrived in Zaria in 1969 that I had the opportunity of gaining an 
understanding of her personality. Here was a lady with a simple but deceptive mien. 
Given her cultivated mannerisms and selective association, you would think that she 
was a recluse. But once you gained her trust, you would never have a warmer, more 
cheerful and honest friend, one with a strong sense of personhood and an admirable 
work ethic. Her marriage to Kolade, a colleague with an unpretentious candor, could 
not have been more productive. Agbo turned out to be a role model for many mothers: 
always concerned with instilling into her three children the same sense of 
fairness, discipline, hardwork and love that she herself embodied. 
Retirement from a creative career as art teacher at the International 
School, Lagos gave people like me the impression 
that she indeed was on to the second phase of a well 
planned life. How mistaken! Now, humanity is the poorer 
for it. On May 3, 2000, a piercing silence descended on 
the Oshinowo homestead. All the smile, the honor and 
the banter, all the hopes and aspirations vanished as Agbo 
drew her last breath. As we mourn, we are reminded of 
our own mortality. The giver has taken. But as we mourn, 
we celebrate a fulfilled life; a life that was full of sparkle 
and chuckle, insight and contentment. 
Agboola Oshinowo, adieu, 
dele jegede 
•* ***** Mi REVIEW ><A'r, Wrican Quarterly on the Arts><V0\5(a>tio2>