In conversation about African culture, the art of giving is often characterised as binary: material and immaterial. While the former involves gifting gold and silver, the latter involves the intimacy of donating time.
Without denying the value of a material gift, there can, of course, be no disputing the nobility in devoting time to the pursuit of the interests of others. In the materialist world, we are classified as either billionaires, millionaires, simply comfortable, or poor. This means that our ability to give depends on what providence endows us with.
While the size of our wealth may vary individually, time is definitely a leveler for all. So, giving of one’s time—a resource universally fixed for everyone—is to truly give more.
This is how I define the essence of Azubuike Ishiekwene: a friend who sticks closer than a brother. Journalism introduced us more than thirty years ago in Lagos. We were first acquaintances and, despite the age gap, became buddies, then brothers, and collaborators.
I count him among that unique tribe instinctively wired and eager to volunteer of their own allotted 24 hours often in the service of those unable to give anything in return.
It is often said that the factor of woman or money is the bane of friendship between two males. But for more than a quarter century, Azu and I became what the Yoruba classify as “kori kosun” (intimate friends); we have never quarreled for one day, which reflects his temperance and tolerance.
Therefore, I count myself among the countless beneficiaries of his generosity of spirit, which is quite ecumenical in texture. You only need to hint Azu of a difficulty — whether professional or personal — and, in another moment, he has everything already worked out clinically like oracle regarding finding solutions to problems.
Indeed, his spare frame belies an immense capacity for hard work and laser focus. Not until a dire medical warning came a few years ago did Azu finally agree to accept a significant lifestyle change: muting his phone after 10 pm.
Over the years, he had become addicted to an editor’s hazardous routine: working 24 hours. But regardless, with the furious force of a soldier ant, Azu still juggles many things at once: business manager, columnist, writer, reporter, speaker, mentor, etc. The amazing thing is the adroitness he bears in each of these responsibilities.
Even at that, he yet has this uncanny way of inserting himself into other people’s world and inheriting their battles or yokes, so to speak.
In the course of similarly pushing the boundaries of “community service”, he, for instance, had met his “missing rib” in the 80s. Then, Azu was roving around the idyllic campus of UNILAG following the proverbial “October Rush” when he bumped onto a needy JAMBITE trying to sort out her registration.
Characteristically, the “Good Samaritan” took over her burden. Thereafter, one thing led to another, and he and Rume became an item on the Akoka campus. The rest is now history.
That same spirit undoubtedly led him to countless volunteer organisations like the Open Fees NGO, which is committed to putting underprivileged children through school. One of the beneficiaries of Azu’s generosity is the gateman in Abuja, where he lives, who is now in medical school at Bayero University, Kano.
When we started National Life newspapers in 2008, I drew immeasurably from Azu’s hands-on experience as Controller at the Punch. For the years I served as Information Commissioner in Edo State and had to cope with the choking pressure of office, he was my backroom booster who would help deliver excellent papers rapidly, at no cost. I also did not have to worry much about any backstabbers in the often treacherous media space. Azu had my back fully covered.
Maybe that has to do with his growing up in the rough and tumble of what used to be Lagos’ most iconic ghetto in the 70s and 80s — Ajegunle, where the sense of community was strong and loyalty was religion. No wonder one of Azu’s favorite songs is Akon’s folksy “Ghetto”.
Professionally, tomes have been written or said about his significant contributions to Nigerian letters as a consistent public intellectual of more than three decades standing. For this particular purpose, I bear testimony on a slightly different dimension of the Azu enigma: a deep commitment to family values. His professional accomplishments are matched by equal success in building an adorable home with the kids turning out excellently well.
Suffice it to add that as our friendship deepened over the years, so did our families become integrated. Before my kids left home for university, “Big Mummy” (Rume) made it a point of duty to occasionally host them at their home in Magodo, Lagos, on weekends.
By the 2000s, frustration with ASUU’s prolonged strike eventually pushed the Ishiekwenes into pulling their first daughter, Ashioma, from UNILAG and enrolling her in a top university in the U.S., putting them under financial pressure. I should know. Azu and I have been involved in a lot of collaborations — both intellectual and entrepreneurial — yielding some money. I mainly invested in properties since I hadn’t started paying “serious school fees” as the kids were still in primary school in the 2000s.
Azu’s share of whatever we made went almost entirely offshore into school fees and upkeep allowances in hard currencies. I used to tease him then as Nigeria’s unacknowledged best authority on the black market to ascertain the prevailing exchange rate for either US dollars or British Pounds.
Ashioma earned first and second degrees in flying colour in Chemical Engineering from UT Austin and later Cornell. The second child, Emeke, the chubbier version of the dad, read Law in the U.K. At the same time, at 26, Nkechi earned her PhD in specialising in trauma and child psychology from Georgia State University.
Before Ewan, Ese and Joshua departed home for the Uni, the transition rite was never complete without pep talk from Uncle Azu. Often mixing humor with certain patriarchal sagacity, he would first praise them for excelling in WAEC and then admonish them to, when weary or tempted, always remember our sacrifice as parents and, above, forever uphold the family’s good name which we labored hard to build.
From time to time, Azu never forgets to wire them money as a continued expression of their shared commitment and affection. On one occasion, his courier in the U.S. nearly ended up bankrupt. The man had mistakenly added an extra “0” to the dollar figure he sent my eldest son. Almost immediately, the poor chap frantically dialled Ese’s number, but to no avail. Soon, I was contacted to quickly alert the boy not to assume he’d hit the jackpot.
Curiously, after repeated dials, I too could not reach the boy.
Which kind wahala bi dis?! Suspense.
It was not until after what seemed like an eternity that Azu eventually called back to announce that Ese had refunded the excess. The momentary “digital disappearance” occurred because Ese’s phone battery was flat. God forbid bad thing!
That said, let it also be noted that Azu’s trademark smile hides one thing: an immense capacity for mischief. Such that when victims of his caustic pen finally meets him in flesh for the first time, they are often left wondering if there is any pound of flesh left to exact, metaphorically.
I vividly recall a hilarious encounter with Chief Tony Anenih (of blessed memory) over two decades ago at a social event. PDP’s putative “Mr. Fix It” had previously slammed a multi-billionaire libel suit on PUNCH over an unflattering news story. To worsen matters, Azu had never stopped peppering the PDP supremo in his column in Saturday Punch.
While exchanging banters on the sidelines of the occasion that fateful day, often magisterial Chief Anenih chose to first blanch Azu literally by giving him a condescending look from head to toe before remarking with a sardonic humour: “You already look so lean. By the time you people at PUNCH cough out damages to me at the court, I wonder if you’d have any flesh remaining on your bones.”
We all laughed deliriously.
With Azu, it is always “yabis” unlimited, giving as much as he takes. He has a unique gift to make others laugh at his own expense. A classic example is his recall of his experience during a trip to Thailand several years ago. Hearing Azu bemoan severe body aches after such a tortuous flight from Africa to Asia, his empathetic host (a fellow Nigerian) had recommended he go for body massage in one of the parlours in Patpong.
Pronto, Azu jumped into his jeans, T-shirt and sneakers for the parlor down the street. Not until he was ushered into a dimly lit room and a barely clothed damsel sashayed in did Azu become conscious of the actual implication of full body massage “with happy ending”.
Of course, Thailand is notorious for sex tourism insidiously executed through the ubiquity of “innocuous” massage parlors.
As a “Pastor,” Azu quickly made a cross sign to symbolise divine fortification against temptation on foreign soil. Then, the young lady, scared of losing revenue and the inevitable backlash from her manager, broke down in tears.
Azu agreed to pay for services not rendered as a compromise on that fateful night in Bangkok.
I laughed when he narrated this story to me, unwilling to be drawn into a debate at to my possible response in the circumstance.
Happy 60th birthday, Azu!
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