📚 Lessons in Kobo: How My Father, the UI Bookshop, and One Pacesetter Book Shaped My Life
Growing up, my father encouraged reading—but encouraged is not quite the right word.
He mandated it.
Every week, without fail, I was required to read a book. Not a pamphlet. Not a summary. A full book. And not only read it—but review it, explain it, and defend what I learned. My father was strict, like most fathers of that era. No shortcuts. No excuses.
He did allow one mercy: I could choose the books myself.
I chose Pacesetters.
Those books became my world. I read them everywhere—falling in love with characters, plots, ideas, and the quiet power of stories. Unknown to me then, those novels were laying the foundation for how I would think, analyze, and communicate for the rest of my life.
At the time, my father was the Bookshop Manager at the University of Ibadan. I believe he was the first Black manager after the expatriates left—something I understand the weight of much more clearly now than I did as a child.
I attended Staff School, University of Ibadan, and after school, my father’s driver would pick my siblings and me up. We’d stay at the UI Bookshop until closing time, then go home together. That bookshop was more than a workplace—it was part of my childhood geography.
Each week, before I went to buy my book, my father would ask one question:
“How much is the book for this week?”
This was the early 1970s. Prices were in kobo. I can’t remember the exact amount now, but I remember the pressure of the question.
On one very eventful week, I failed.
I was playful. Distracted. Carefree. I forgot to check the price of the Pacesetter I wanted. When my father asked me the usual Monday question, I panicked and blurted out the first number that came into my head.
He gave me the money.
At the bookshop, when I got to the Pacesetters section, I realized something terrible and tempting at the same time:
The book cost less than what I had quoted.
Young, foolish, and thinking I was clever, I found an eraser and changed the price on the book—upward to match what I had said.
What I didn’t fully understand then was that my father was intentionally letting me complete the transaction myself. Even though he was just upstairs in his office, he wanted me to learn independence, responsibility, and honesty.
Then reality struck.
The cashier looked at the book, paused, and asked calmly:
“Did you change the price?”
I froze.
Mute. Exposed. Caught.
They called my father.
I can still feel the silence of that moment. The embarrassment. The weight of disappointment—not just for me, but for him. Ironically, the only saving grace was that I had changed the price upward, not down—proof not of integrity, but of pure childhood stupidity.
That evening at home…
I will not go into details.
But lessons were learned. Deep ones.
Today, when I look back, I don’t remember the punishment as much as I remember the intent behind everything he did. He wasn’t just raising a child—he was building a man. Teaching accountability. Teaching that honesty matters even when no one is watching. Teaching that integrity is who you are when you think you can get away with something.
So today, I say this with gratitude, love, and reverence:
“I love you, Bamidele Emmanuel Akinseye. Forever.”
May your soul rest in perfect peace.
— Your son,
Akindele Akinseye
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