Writing on Oyeweso is writing about the stubbornness of remembrance in a world addicted to forgetting. He was not only a historian; he was History walking around in human form, a man for whom dates, places, people, and circumstances flowed with ease. Born of a lineage where learning was inheritance, not chance, he rose early into the world of books. Even in youth, his voice carried the calm assurance of one who knew well that scholarship is not noise but presence, not speed but depth.

…he who lived a life of scholarship does not die. He becomes an archive in the sky, a reference point in the cosmology of memory. The dead do not sleep but go to join their ancestors. The great hall of Yoruba scholars welcomes another giant…

3 AM, Tuesday, December 2, 2025. Morning came heavy, like the ancient drums soaked in rainwater. A morning that refused to rise, a dawn that dimmed its own light, as if the sky knew a custodian of memory had gone. News travels fast these days, yet some messages still land slowly, softly, like the fall of dried leaves on old verandas. So is the news of the transition of Professor Abdulgafar Siyan Oyeweso, the historian whose voice nursed generations and whose scholarship irrigated fields abandoned long by forgetful minds.

This morning carried his name, whispered through telephones, released in texts, and posted across digital and physical spaces. But before fingers could type out the words, he was gone; the soul of our intellectual community had already heard them. The forest of scholars shook, and the calabash of memory cracked. A scholar is gone, yes. But more so, a bridge of memory, an archival river, a living chronicle voice of history fluent in the past of empires, culture, conflict, and reconciliation.

Writing on Oyeweso is writing about the stubbornness of remembrance in a world addicted to forgetting. He was not only a historian; he was History walking around in human form, a man for whom dates, places, people, and circumstances flowed with ease. Born of a lineage where learning was inheritance, not chance, he rose early into the world of books. Even in youth, his voice carried the calm assurance of one who knew well that scholarship is not noise but presence, not speed but depth.

In classrooms and conferences across Nigeria, Africa, and the wider world, he was uniquely a blend of clarity and persuasion. Students did not just attend his classes; they sat at his feet. Policymakers did not just invite him; they listened. Colleagues did not just collaborate with him; they admired him. The challenge of governance was a question of extended historical responsibility: great institutions needed to remember their origins to plot their futures, and his approach as Pro-Chancellor and Chairman of the Council at Obafemi Awolowo University reflected this.

Many historians write history. Some interpret it. But Oyeweso translated history into living wisdom. His works, from those on the Nigerian Civil War to Yoruba political history to Islamic intellectual traditions in Southwestern Nigeria to the histories of institutions, are not just books but maps to navigate our fractured national memory. To read him was to make one’s way through corridors carved by the past yet lit by the urgency of the present.

He was civil, even when combating evasions. He handled facts like a craftsman handles his tools- firmly, but never roughly. In a time of noisy opinion, he gave quiet knowledge. In a season of shallow sound bites, he provided considered insights. Oyeweso lived his life as a Yoruba man, proudly and fully. He married culture and faith with enviable grace: a Muslim by piety, a Yoruba by tradition, and a Nigerian intellectual by a broader call. In him, Islam found a scholar who understood its place in Yoruba history. Thus was Yorubaland to see a son unafraid to defend its traditions. In Nigeria, it found a historian committed to the truth of its becoming. He never viewed culture as an ornament but as an inheritance; he viewed religion not as a weapon but as a compass.

Death never sends an invitation; it just appears. But some deaths reshape the landscape of knowledge, and this morning’s loss is one of them. We grieve because we needed more time with him. More books. More lectures. More debates. But the ancestors have called.

But he who lived a life of scholarship does not die. He becomes an archive in the sky, a reference point in the cosmology of memory. The dead do not sleep but go to join their ancestors. The great hall of Yoruba scholars welcomes another giant: Samuel Johnson rises to greet him. Ade Ajayi nods with a knowing smile. Tekena Tamuno, Adeagbo Akinjogbin, Obaro Ikime, Ayo Ogunseye— The full council of the departed historians opens its gates. He walks in as tranquil as ever, carrying history in his palms.

How do we conclude a tribute to a man whose life was a long conversation with time? Prof. Siyan Oyeweso taught us that memory is a duty. He did not just pass through the world. He left footprints deep enough for others to follow.

And so, we say: Farewell, Baba Akọ́wé.
Farewell, Teacher of Teachers.
Farewell, Voice of History.
Farewell, Bridge between faith and culture, between past and future.
History does not die,
and neither do you—Siyan Oyeweso,
who taught knowledge in rainbow lights.

If the earth quakes,
the story remains.
If the fire dies,
the ashes outlive it.

You are the remains
of radiant legacies.
Your voice still lingers
in the hum of the market
in the quietude of the library
in the songs children sing
before sleep claims them.

Even in your absence
Your footsteps echo
on paths we dare to tread.
Even in silence,
Your wisdom blooms
like petals in the wind.