Akintola Williams: “I should have been a journalist”, by Bruce Malogo

Pioneer Approved An accountant In Africa, Akintola Williams. [Photo credit: THE Politics]

By THE time I request THE last question, We had spent close has two hours. HAS THE END, I apologized For socket "a lot of your time, Sir." He replied with A wide smile… "No, No, No!" he protested. "You do he SO easy And simple For Me. I appreciated he." SO he collapsed backward… He breath In THE air And said, "You know What?" I said "What, Sir?" He gave that easy, soft smile that East particular has old people: "Maybe I should to have has been A journalist!" And We bursts In hoarse, roar laugh.

He deceased on Monday, 11 September, aged 104 years. Two weeks After her ninetieth birthday, I called him has ask For A profile interview. I was editor has THE Sun newspapers. He agreed; unwillingly. He was has brand her birthday, Identifier said him. He gave Me time; ten am., And THE place; her residence. I knew her type. He belonged has those WHO are inflexible In their solve – In A admirable path. A man of "ruler And double," as Charles Devil would be put he In her novel, Hard Times. In This example, I was awareness with THE do that he was pedantic In imported of social label. SO, has appear late For THE appointment would be be close has commit suicide. SO, on that day, I LEFT House comfortably early And appeared has her grid quickly as expected.

He resided In Ikoyi, that enclave For Men of means And muscles. You would have to wait for M Akintola Williams, as THE majority of her tribe, has to reside In a few place that remember You of A prison court. Of course, her residence was walled up In by A high fence; he was not your traditional, vulgar structure that could draw ranks with THE maximum wing of THE Kirikiri Prisons. From THE Street, you would have see through In THE sprawling local. THE walls of THE perimeter fence were do with hollow bricks. THE entrance had two doors, but he seemed that only A allowed people go In And out. He was permanently half-opened, he appeared. Not only that. He was your regular grid, do of iron bars; No flat leaves Or plates. Even THE bars look at fragile.

SO I had No worry assess her House on Ilabere Avenue.

I request My driver has to pull on on THE opposite side of THE Street, through her House. I walk casually, Again with caution, has THE grid, pushed he gently And he open. A companion In regular outfit, obviously A security man, THE type everyone calls "May guard," emerged Since THE guard house And said In A calm, almost inaudible voice, "Yes?" I stopped. “Oh, Sorry. Please I to want has see Dad," I said with A ring of guilt In My Your. He was that type of Sorry feeling You get When You to have behaved wrong Or watch poor manners. I I could not TO DO out Since Or, but THE man detained up A piece of paper has Me. On he was writing 'M Bruce Malogo. 10 a.m. "Yes, It is Me," I said him. "All right, come!" he directed Me. I obstinate behind him. As We walk, that piece of paper flashed In My the mind eyes, And I muttered has myself with A sarcastic smile: "My name, And time. A few men!”

Upstairs, I was inaugurated In THE the man expansive desk. You had has TO DO A journey Since THE door of THE desk has Or he sat, curve on A painting In A corner as A Buddhist monk. By THE path, her desk was In THE even local as her residence. RIGHT Since THE door, I Free My greetings. He replied. I do THE journey has her painting And took her tense hand In to welcome. Protocols on In seconds.