From the very moment this large, plump duck waddled on from pond to pitch, you knew there would be something special about it. Something different. And as the duck spread its considerable feathers - rising magnificently to plant beak to ball against Swindon - so the crowd cowered, afraid. So the duck became not breast, but beast.
The colossus was born, and a kind of Cobbler cult emerged to adopt him as their own. From that moment on, we've been living in a Bayo wonderland. Not so much Northampton Town; more Akinfenwa country.
Much taunted, much maligned but mostly much loved, the big man with a big heart has had a huge impact on our mostly forgotten club. Now people remember, now people know who we are. Okay, well perhaps not us, but they know who he is and vitally they know where he slumbers in his cave, ready to be awakened and unleashed on fearful defenders. Sixfields.
Fame comes with two things, adulation and jealousy, and often the two have split our support right down the middle, even when a third possibility is on the table.
He's too fat. He's all muscle.
He can't run. He can destroy.
He makes us one dimensional. He is four dimensional.
He eats Nando's. He gobbles up chances.
The truth is probably somewhere inbetween, but we need not mention the truth. The truth is dull, and with big personalities come huge extremities of opinion. I love him, yet I acknowledge his detractors as also having a point. With Bayo, one does not live without the other. He brings a divide, yet an overwhelming sense of togetherness in his tender moments. After scoring, as he points to the sky and his fanatic followers chant their chorus, sometimes I can't help but feel something religious inside.
When he left for Gillingham it was like we lost a piece of ourselves. He'd helped us rediscover from some loss of identity, and yet even before his leaving we already lost regularly enough. We were sinking without trace, and seeing him rise in a different shirt just seemed to compound our misery. We were doomed, and without our monster upfront we needed more than a Pelé to stop us from firing blanks.
There had long been rumours, but when the beast almost inevitably returned home, opinion once more differed furiously. An overwhelming majority welcomed back their demigod, yet there were still dissenting voices, concrete in their view that you should 'never go back'.
Still the same player, still the same effervescent man, his second spell has sparked just as many debates as his first - as many arguments, as many column inches. As many runs as barren as a Saharan drought, as many streaks as scorching as a page three stunner.
What you cannot argue with is his cult status. It has been rubber-stamped since his return, and whilst his goal scoring record is also pretty bloody good, not one Cobbler will ever forget him. Not one. Rarely has one being left such an imprint upon a place, upon his battered victims nor even his detractors.
So please, Adebayo. You have a lasting legacy waiting; your dreams of ambition are ours of promotion. Do not let it all go to waste.
Since January and murmurings of a final good-bayo, for the first time I look on with disinterest as he strolls a slow, sedated death. Though he'd currently receive better service at his favourite fast-food chain, there was once a time when he created his very own three-course menu. Goals, goals, goals.
No longer does it amaze to see 'that brick sh*thouse from the gym' on a football field that isn't American. No longer do the opposition break at first sight, no longer has he simply the aura to terrorize.
For God's sake Bayo. For our sakes. Get your mind off your biceps and lift up our saddened souls, now weighing almost as heavy as those dumbbells you so adore. Please I pray, get that claw out one final time. There are three battles left to be won, and you are still our most violent weapon when you want to be.
Want to be, Bayo. Don't settle for cult status. Want to be a hero.
It cannot end with a whimper. It simply cannot. It just wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be you.
