PREMIUM TIMES
By the time I asked the last question, we had spent close to two hours. At the end, I apologised for taking “much of your time, sir.” He responded with a broad smile… “No, no, no!” he protested. “You made it so easy and simple for me. I enjoyed it.” Then he collapsed backward… He blew into the air and said, “You know what?” I said “What, sir?” He gave that easy, sweet smile that is peculiar to old people: “Perhaps I should have been a journalist!” And we bursted into throaty, roaring laughter.
He died on Monday, 11 September, aged 104 years. Two weeks after his ninetieth birthday, I called him to ask for a profile interview. I was editor at The Sun newspapers. He agreed; reluctantly. It was to mark his birthday, I’d told him. He gave me time; 10 a.m., and the venue; his residence. I knew his type. He belonged to those who are unyielding in their resolve – in an admirable way. A man of “rule and line,” as Charles Dickens would put it in his novel, Hard Times. In this instance, I was acquainted with the fact that he was pedantic in matters of social etiquette. Therefore, to appear late for the appointment would be akin to committing suicide. So, on that day, I left home comfortably early and appeared at his gate promptly as expected.
He resided in Ikoyi, that enclave for men of means and muscles. You’d expect Mr Akintola Williams, like the majority of his tribe, to reside in some place that reminds you of a prison yard. Of course, his residence was walled in by a high fence; it was not your traditional, vulgar structure that could draw ranks with the maximum wing of the Kirikiri Prisons. From the street, you’d see through into the sprawling premises. The walls of the perimeter fence were done with hollow bricks. The entrance had two gates, but it seemed that only one allowed people go in and out. It was permanently ajar, it appeared. Not only that. It was your regular gate, made of iron bars; no flat sheets or plates. Even the bars looked flimsy.
So I had no trouble assessing his home on Ilabere Avenue.
I asked my driver to pull over on the opposite side of the street, across his house. I walked casually, yet cautiously, to the gate, pushed it gently and it opened. A fellow in regular outfit, obviously a security man, the type everyone calls “Mai guard,” emerged from the gatehouse and said in a calm, almost inaudible voice, “Yes?” I stopped. “Ah, sorry. Please I want to see Daddy,” I said with a ring of guilt in my tone. It was that type of sorry feeling you get when you have behaved badly or shown poor manners. I couldn’t make out from where, but the man held up a piece of paper to me. On it was written ‘Mr Bruce Malogo. 10am.’ “Yes, it’s me,” I told him. “Ok, come!” he led me. I dogged behind him. As we walked, that piece of paper flashed in my mind’s eyes, and I muttered to myself with a sarcastic smile: “My name, and time. Some men!”
Upstairs, I was ushered into the man’s expansive office. You had to make a journey from the door of the office to where he sat, hunched over a table in a corner like a Buddhist monk. By the way, his office was in the same premises as his residence. Right from the door, I offered my greetings. He responded. I made the trip to his table and took his outstretched hand in welcome. Protocols over in seconds…
