SOJ: Curator of the Double Edge, Keeper of the Bicephalous Sword, Voice of the Yellow Earth

 

Before I could begin echoing my voice from the fire, before I balloon away to witness other empires filled with hollow promises, I was privileged to walk closely with the curator of the Double Edge, the man who believed that helping hands are the purest way to give ourselves true visibility.

We worked like a team. The curator of the Double Edge was never a man who beefed others. He believed the sky is wide enough for every bird to fly. I fondly called him Daddy because he acted the role so effortlessly. He was the only one among the fellows who visited my hometown the day he invited me to Babarinsa’s birthday. He loved people deeply. I watched him humble himself while meeting veteran journalist Babafemi Ojudu, and without hesitation he went forward to greet the former Governor of Osun State and Minister of Interior, Ogbeni Adesoji Aregbesola, in Ekiti. That was his nature, simple, bold, and full of respect.

Let me say this truthfully: the publisher of SOJ WORLDWIDE News was great in life, and I pray he can somehow look back to see the stories unfolding after his fall.

I listened to your last voice note, Daddy. The final assignment you gave me. I responded without a second thought because of the respect I had for you. When our team eventually visited, you said, “Orion, pray for me.” And I replied, “As God lives, you will join us tomorrow at the event you are chairing.” You came. And the moment I sighted you, I left my seat and sat beside you. I never knew it would be our last photograph.

Since 2023, when I lost a friend from Akwa Ibom who had just completed her NYSC service, I have often asked myself if those close to me must leave without warning. Each night before I sleep, I pray that God will not hide from me whatever may befall those dear to my heart.

Now, I have lost my pen again, because the curator of the Double Edge has become a story written in the Orion constellation.

An Ode to the Double-Edge Curator

When an apostle of the pen falls, his legacy does not fade;

it echoes in chambers where even silence kneels.

The Bicephalous Edge slices through shadows,

from the southern pole to the northern breath of wind,

carving wisdom into the spine of time.

He shimmered like emerald fire,

steady, unbroken,

a lantern in a writer’s wandering night.

His heart guarded in purity,

washed in the cure of kindness,

held no bruise for any soul;

he moved like a man whose spirit refused to stain.

I doff my hat.

I bend low to the clay of remembrance.

For your footsteps,

still warm upon the Yellow Earth,

teach my own feet where to fall.

Your thoughts remain my compass,

your courage my ink,

your legacy the quiet whisper

that steadies my trembling pen.

Sleep well,

curator of the Double Edge,

your name is now a constellation

that no dusk can swallow.

Signed:

Abioye Tosin Lawrence

Publisher, OrionTimes Online Newspaper