ATLANTA - s4story -- Day One: Strangers—or Old Friends? Time Would Tell.

On Day One, classmates gathered to welcome one another with hugs, screams of joy—hilarious screams—and high fives, often tasking their memories to recognize people who, in those first few moments, seemed like strangers. Some had not seen each other since leaving medical school forty years ago.

Slowly, familiar voices tugged at memory, triggering a gradual download—sometimes partial, sometimes complete—of recognition. For some, recollection happened within minutes or hours. For others, it came over the next few days. And for a few, perhaps, it never came at all.

Whenever recognition finally occurred, there was another hug, another burst of laughter, and another round of posing for pictures.

It was remarkable to watch old memories thaw.

Day Two: Looking Into Atlanta's Past

On Day Two, some classmates visited the Museum of African American History, where the scars of slavery and the wounds of racism revealed how the past, present, and future remain interlaced in the life of Atlanta and its people.

People walked through the galleries, some of us startled and in disbelief, reading and listening to the dialogue and arguments over what right one man had to enslave another. Every now and then, a colleague would draw another's attention to a proslavery argument displayed on the wall.

Day Three: MLK, Friendship, Food, and Dancing

Day Three began with a visit to the Martin Luther King Jr. historic sites. Many of us came away with a renewed appreciation of MLK as a visionary—a man ahead of his time, a man who loved people and was willing to sacrifice himself for what he believed.

He was a man both emboldened and ultimately consumed by his commitment to Black people, justice, equality, and humanity.

When evening arrived, some classmates went to Kunle's rooftop, while others headed to Leslie's for dinner and a party like no other.

Forget about introductions. Forget about announcements. Forget about speeches.

As classmates got off the bus that brought us from the hotel, we walked along an interlocked path leading to an outdoor awning, where music was already playing and pans containing a variety of foods lined the entrance.

"People who know me know that I love parties," Leslie said.

The message was simple: Eat as much as you can, drink as much as you can, and boogie as much as you can.

And that was exactly what we did.

Some, like Anselm, began dancing as soon as they finished their first plate of chicken and rice with goat meat. Others, like Tunji, apparently needed to get a little alcohol into their system before hitting the dance floor.

At the peak of the party, Chinwe, Barry, Roro, Poccoh, Lolo, and many others were rocking it in ways I had never seen them do before.

Then we began dancing in circles. Turn by turn, each of us stepped into the middle of the expanding circle and went wild with our dancing moves.

And so, we ate, drank, talked, laughed, remembered, and danced deep into the night.

Day Four: Business Before the Gala

Day Four began with the class business meeting.

New officers were chosen for the class, and the accomplishments of the Class of 1986 were reviewed and celebrated.

AdeYemi Olufolabi, the outgoing president, listed projects undertaken by the class over the years. These ranged from improvements to the water system to infrastructure repairs and the provision of equipment to both the medical and dental schools. He also outlined new requests for assistance from the College of Medicine.

Alumni have increasingly tried to fill some of the gaps left in the system. This includes paying school fees and accommodation costs for indigent students.

"No student brilliant enough to get into University College Hospital, Ibadan, should be allowed to hawk akara to support themselves through medical school," the class president said.

Addressing the class during the morning meeting, Modupe Sokumbi, the current president of the Ibadan College of Medicine Alumni Association North America (ICOMAA-NA), said that the Class of 1986 is held in high esteem because of its achievements. These include producing two provosts of the College of Medicine—Babatunde Salako and Oluwabunmi Olapade-Olaopa—and making significant financial, professional, and skills-based contributions to the school.

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What was even more intriguing about the reunion was that a handful of our classmates—largely anonymous—had invited the rest of us to Buckhead, Atlanta, and quietly sponsored much of our food, fun, and entertainment.

Many of us did not know exactly who paid for what or how much these classmates had contributed. They did not seek recognition or applause. They simply wanted their classmates to come together, reconnect, eat, laugh, dance, and enjoy one another again after forty years.

Perhaps that quiet generosity made the reunion even more remarkable.

As Onome put it during the meeting, "I am humbled and so appreciative of how magnificent these classmates were."

I felt the same way.

My guess is that many of us did too.

At exactly noon, a voice protested from somewhere in the room:

"Finish up so that we can go prepare for the gala night!"

The objections did not gather enough strength to overcome that motion.

The meeting ended shortly afterward.

Gala Night: The Class of 1986 Takes the Floor

By 7 p.m., everyone had assembled again.

Before entering the ballroom, people spent about thirty minutes in the lobby, gathering in twos, threes, and larger groups to take—and retake—pictures. Some posed in the middle of the lobby. Others lined up against the photo backdrop on the wall.

When everyone was fully seated, and before the evening got into full swing, photographs of classmates who had passed away appeared on the screen.

Gasps rumbled across the ballroom.

One thing to bear in mind is that our class is a close family. Like every family, we have shared events over the years—some joyful, others devastating. Seeing the faces of classmates who were no longer with us reminded us that this reunion was not only about celebrating those who had returned. It was also about remembering those who could not.

Then, reluctantly, but gradually overpowered by a renewed burst of camaraderie, we picked up from where we had stopped.

More friends were discovered. Throughout the evening, memories continued to joggle themselves awake, revealing that apparent strangers were actually old friends—and, in some cases, former medical school roommates.

The seating arrangements were seemingly random, yet somehow they yielded a perfect remix across time and place.

Frank and Leo sat diagonally from each other, gazing in different directions. From where he sat, Frank could see Fred commandeering Chike to take a picture of him posing with a few others, while Leo could hear Perera and Ademola discussing surgical approaches to separating extra digits. Further up, Henry laughed out loud as Sobhan retold some of his dire and desperate situations from medical school.

Scenes like these unfolded throughout the ballroom: old friends, old stories, present-day medicine, and forty-year-old memories all crisscrossing one another in the same room.

There was something eerie and beautiful about the thawing of memories buried for forty years and the sudden identification of a stranger as someone who had once been an intimate part of your daily life.

Greg Maido, in his poem "What Is a Reunion?" captured much of the essence of the event:

"We remember the shared joys of sweet success, the sharp agonies of exams we failed, and the echoing laughter of the mischief makers, who were geniuses in not taking life too seriously."

Then came dinner.

Jollof rice, fish, stew, goat meat, and wine were followed by dancing, awards, and comedy.

The medical class had been divided into five groups—A, B, C, D, and E—and our colleagues from the 1986 dental class formed another group. One after another, the groups danced their way from the back of the ballroom toward the stage.

Once each group reached the front, the dancing intensified.

Buttocks shook. Trunks twisted. Some skipped. Some hopped. People seemed determined to shake off whatever vestiges of modesty decades of medical practice had engraved into their doctoral psyche.

Those like Nikhil, who swore they couldn't dance, somehow learned on the journey toward the stage. By the time they arrived, the dance spirit had taken possession of them, throwing and bouncing them around the dance floor.

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Each group posed for pictures after its performance.

Spouses danced their way to the stage. So did friends and guests. Children and young adults of the alumni also danced their way from the floor to the stage.

Nobody felt left behind.

For comedy, Roro reminded classmates of some of the exotic things they had said, the exotic ways they had dressed, and some of the exotic ways they had behaved forty—or even fifty—years ago.

The ballroom erupted repeatedly in laughter.

And what a master class Austin gave as Master of Ceremonies.

Benjamin came forward to receive an award for the least changed classmate, while Bankole reclaimed his award as the classmate with the most children. The Azikens claimed the award for the most physicians in the family. All eyes were on Folarin to reclaim his award as the longest-married classmate, but somehow, this time around, the award fell through the cracks.

Leadership also received well-deserved recognition. Much of the command and control of the reunion was handled by Ifeoma and Adanna, in coordination with Chairman Chuks and his dedicated cabinet.

Give it up for all of them.

Forty-Year-Old Memories—and Forty-Year-Old Grudges

I overheard a few people say that this 40th reunion was the best reunion we have ever had.

Despite the overall ecstasy, however, vestigial remnants of grudges from our medical school days still smoldered in a few minds, like the pit of burnt firewood covered with ash.

Only keen observers noticed.

In one corner, a classmate playfully pummeled another while accusing him of contributing to his having to retake a pathology class test.

Not far from the bickering duo, a tall classmate, staring down at his shorter colleague, tried to extract an apology for an event he said had happened forty years ago.

"Say you are sorry," the tall guy insisted.

Forty years!

Some memories fade.

Others apparently wait patiently for reunions.

Still Rediscovering One Another

Although many of us have known one another for close to fifty years, we are still rediscovering each other and learning things about one another that we never knew.

During an hour-long walk with Yemi, for example, I learned, among other things, that as a child he once shook hands with General Yakubu Gowon, Nigeria's Head of State from 1966 to 1975.

During a bus trip, I learned from Poccoh that there are two things I should never ignore: religion and politics.

And whenever doctors gather, someone inevitably finds a way to bring academics and research into the conversation.

"Ictal epileptic headache is what I am working on now," Adetunji T. told me as we sat catching up on old times.

Tunji, to my surprise, has a tendency to smack people on the shoulder as he talks. I did not know that before. By the end of our conversation, I had a bruised right shoulder, which I painstakingly endured.

Another discovery after forty years!

Unfolding throughout the reunion was the crisscrossing of friendship, memory, generosity, laughter, history, old wounds, rediscovery, gratitude, food, dancing, and the strange realization that someone you once knew intimately can become a stranger—and then, with the sound of a familiar voice or the flash of an old smile, become your friend again.

Forty years have passed since we left medical school.

We have traveled different roads. We have practiced medicine, raised families, built careers, served communities, lost people, gained people, succeeded, stumbled, grown older, and, hopefully, grown wiser.

Yet in Buckhead, Atlanta, for a few remarkable days, those forty years seemed to collapse.

The young medical students we once were emerged again.

They laughed.

They argued.

They remembered.

They gave.

And, most of all, they danced.

One More Picture Before Goodbye

On Sunday morning, when most people and their families were returning to their destinations, my wife and I got off the elevator, dragging our luggage behind us, toward a waiting Uber that would take us to the airport.

As we turned the corner from the elevator, Chima and Roro stood sentry in the hotel lobby, having what appeared to be a critical conversation.

"Here comes the slick one," Roro said.

I abandoned my luggage and went over to shake their hands.

Before I could retrieve my luggage, a clean-shaven Obi gingerly walked into the hotel lobby.

"Hi, Obi," I said.

"Hi, Salemoo," he replied.

We shook hands and hugged.

What else?

Five of us altogether. Time for another picture.

But the Uber man appeared again.

This time, I had to go.

Reluctantly, I said goodbye.

End

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