As I stirred a colorful mix of vegetables, mushrooms, and diced chicken breast, my mouth watered, anticipating the deliciousness. Mushrooms, in particular, brought me back to my childhood in Ijare, reminding me of the complex relationship I once had with them. Here’s my mushroom story, not just about mushrooms but also about the mind of a child and the remarkable leadership of Yeye, my grandmother.
In Ijare, there was no electricity at the time. Our main source of news was a radiovision box mounted on the verandah wall of my maternal grandfather’s house, where I lived with Yeye. Every evening, family members, neighbors, and even passing visitors would gather on the verandah—not just for banter but to share stories, tell folktales, and immerse ourselves in the magic of storytelling. When the news came on, everyone hushed, eager to listen and engage in discussions afterward. The radiovision was our window to the world, our lifeline to information, especially in a time where newspapers were scarce.
One evening, the news reported a tragedy: a family in Lagos had died after eating poisonous mushrooms. Up until that moment, mushrooms were a beloved part of my life. Yeye often foraged for wild mushrooms, adding them to our soups, creating rich and delicious meals. I adored mushrooms. But after hearing this chilling news, my innocent mind was seized with fear. The elders who sat around, discussing the event, echoed the warning that not all mushrooms were safe to eat. That was all I needed to hear. I vowed never to touch mushrooms again.
At that time, I was about seven years old, and in the black-and-white thinking of a child, if one type of mushroom could kill, then I wanted nothing to do with any of them. I told Yeye with all seriousness that I would no longer eat mushrooms. In her calm and gentle way, Yeye respected my fear and agreed without question. She promised that I would never have to eat mushrooms again, and I trusted her completely.
From then on, Yeye continued her routine of picking mushrooms and cooking them in her vegetable or okra soups. However, when it came time to serve me, she would carefully remove every single mushroom from my plate. I would eat with joy, feeling confident that I had avoided the danger. Yeye never once debated or dismissed my decision. She didn’t lecture me on what I didn’t understand. Instead, she quietly honored my feelings and protected my innocence, ensuring that I felt safe.
Years later, when Yeye had passed and I was living with my mother, I reflected on those meals. I came to realize that although I hadn’t eaten the mushrooms, I had still consumed vegetables soaked in their juices. Had those mushrooms been poisonous, the result would have been the same. Yeye knew this, of course, but in her wisdom, she managed the situation with grace, allowing me to maintain my childhood innocence while she quietly ensured my safety.
This reflection reveals so much about Yeye’s extraordinary qualities. As a mentor and leader, she understood the delicate nature of a child’s mind, where imagination and reality are often intertwined. Children see the world in simple terms, and Yeye respected that. Rather than dismissing my fear or forcing me to confront something I wasn’t ready for, she created a space where I felt heard and understood.
Yeye’s crisis management in this situation was subtle but profound. She didn’t try to educate me in a way that would shatter my innocent worldview. Instead, she worked within it, offering reassurance and love. Her actions communicated far more than words ever could, teaching me the value of trust and the importance of feeling secure in the care of others.
Her leadership extended beyond managing this small crisis. Through her patience, Yeye showed that love sometimes means allowing a child to hold onto their fears, knowing that time and experience would eventually bring clarity. She never imposed her wisdom on me directly but trusted that I would grow into it. That confidence she placed in me was, in itself, a form of nurturing.
And so, my mushroom story is not just about a child’s fear of poisonous food. It’s a story of how Yeye, with quiet strength and immense love, guided me through my innocence without ever diminishing it. She was a provider, protector, and mentor—her leadership was not loud or forceful, but rooted in empathy, care, and unwavering support.
As I sit now, enjoying the same mushrooms I once feared, I think of Yeye and how her gentle guidance continues to nourish me, just as those mushroom-filled meals once did.
NB: Johnson Babalola, a Canada based lawyer, leadership consultant and corporate emcee, is a public affairs analyst.
