by Chude Jideonwo

I thought I had figured out death. First after my father; and then, after the Dana tragedy, in tortured conversations with my maker.

In the early weeks of April, I had also lost a dear uncle – not close, but still very dear – and I had refused to give death the satisfaction of victory. I had been defiant; disdainful.

Alas, the reaper still retained its capacity to sting.

So, set against the dramatic background of the lush, sobering, English countryside, only a few minutes after our train began to chortle along, just as my companion and I traded anecdotes and disbelief that our mutual ‘uncle’ could be dead, in spite of myself, I suddenly burst into tears.

It couldn’t be helped – this rushing flood of pain; this sinking feeling of helplessness.

Because, you see, this was Efere Ozako. It was Efere Ozako, a man who had been a relentless presence in my life and the lives of so many others, who had just died.

I remember the last time I spoke to him, at the launch of filmmaker Charles Novia’s autobiography.

Pulling me aside after my review, Mr. Efere – as I called him when I didn’t use Uncle – wanted to catch up. Regrettably, it was a conversation I wanted to end quickly – one of those sober moments that I shared with him over the past decade that unsettled me.

In his quiet questions and soft responses, I always felt that something bubbled underneath – not sadness more than wanting. Yes, he had achieved so much, but there was always so much more he wanted to do; possibilities not yet explored, a whole vista of longing.

I was more comfortable with the other Mr. Efere – the cheerleader, conversation starter, life of the party.

The one who had screamed over the phone at my partner and I four months
before in Port Harcourt.

The complicated logistics at last year’s edition of The Future Awards (on which board he sits) left him stranded for a few minutes at the airport.

Just the day before, he had praised how flawless our organization had been, how far we had come. It meant a lot coming from him.

After all, it was in Mr. Efere’s office that we found our feet – first office space, first lawyers, all of course pro bono.

There was more: a loan to deliver the first edition of the awards, a
guarantee to the venue owners that we would pay up, calls to associates who could help, unendingly fair counsel when our quarrels began, lunch at his house and invitations forthwith, a presence whenever and wherever we needed him. Even help with my final year project on a woman’s right over her body.

If you asked and he could, he would help – with a heart so large I sometimes feared it would implode under the weight of all those who took from it, who kept him till midnight in his office, complete with raucous laughter and quick pen-drawn sketches of the endless ideas that came to his head.

Sometimes the intensity could overwhelm; but it was also what made him
so capable of being there for everyone; family, friends, colleagues, mentees.

He had been there for me from the first time I met him in the studios of NTA 10, a law student who had already heard of his legendary ‘Wetin Lawyers Dey Do… Sef’. He treated scruffy, shy, eager-to-please me like an equal immediately I said hello – or he said hello first. He didn’t care for ego, you see.

And one Sunday afternoon as I was stuck for guests on our show New Dawn, I knew instinctively that there was one ‘big’ guest I could invite to come within an hour, and who wouldn’t feel insulted. I was right. The first of many favours to come.

In return for what? Very little, in fact. From me, nothing, save for my articles for his dear magazine Takaii. Because, Mr. Efere was a proud Warri boy as far I knew. He didn’t like to ask, didn’t ever want to be a burden. Or maybe, so used to giving, he kept forgetting to ask.

Until the day he passed.

The folly of many of us lay in our well, foolish, assumptions that people like Efere Ozako don’t die too soon – that they have too much energy, too much positivity, too much love, too much humanity. That they will be here forever.

So we don’t tell them how much we love them. We don’t tell them that all they need to do is ask and we will come running, we don’t tell them that their approval means a lot to us, or that they are special – utterly, desperately special.

So that is why we now cry loudly and endlessly, Mr. Efere. That is why I wanted the world to share my grief on Twitter and elsewhere that terrible morning. That is why we all came out to honour you, and cried as you were laid to rest, and before, and after.

And that is why it took me so long to find these words, after I had tried and failed so many times. And even now the words do not seem competent, or enough.

Because I thought you could never die. Because we needed you not to ever die. Because in our hearts, you would never die.

Chai! Mr. Efere, how could you die?