Iya Banji

From whence we came

The kind of life my parents served me created a radically different history and story from the one they had experienced. More fundamentally, what defined their childhood from the little village where they made their first friends to the unforgettable memories that they have rarely shared separates us even further.

Though I have some fond memories of visiting our hometown and meeting with cousins, grandparents, and distant relations, I find none of the affinity for the place as one parent does, and another so thoroughly reviles. I have no such identity with the place except in the compulsion and diktat of my forebears; I was last there about forty years ago.

Significantly, these people who once came out of that town and travelled the world as it was their oyster and, in the process, became successful professionals of every sort, have returned to this place to retire enjoying the good fortune of old age and the misery of watching peers and juniors pass away around them.

Balls on the road

One memory best told in our dialect of Ìjẹ̀bú, in which I have the most laughable proficiency, if any at all, finds its best delivery in my faulting but unmistakable recollection.

My mother was driving from Lagos to Ijesha-Ijebu with my aunt, who was my dad’s immediate younger sibling. She was known to us through the name of her first son, and it was evidently disrespectful of us all, because he is the first and eldest of all our maternal and paternal cousins.

As we passed from Ikenne towards Ilishan, on the home straight to Ijesha-Ijebu, the spare tyre in the undercarriage at the back of the Peugeot 504 she was driving detached and fell onto the road. Someone called in Ìjẹ̀bú that the testicles had fallen. “Wóró ẹ̀ ti jábọ́ o.”

We stopped and I went to pick up the tyre, rolled it up to the car and fixed it back to the undercarriage, securing it properly with the clip. My mum and aunt were out of the car, watching that everything was done properly. As I finished, my aunt quipped in Ìjẹ̀bú, “Well, the person of whom it has been said their testicles have fallen, now has them tied back up in the sack.” “Ọni rán fọ wóró ẹ̀ jábọ́, nà tí so padà yẹ̀n.”

In tribute and sympathy

This remains one of the lasting memories of my aunt, her great sense of humour delivered dead pan with such seriousness, yet you could not fail to get the joke, which by happenstance was also the spelling of her name, meaning who we care for together, she was no joke, by any stretch of the imagination.

A hardworking, strong, purposeful woman and a purveyor of wholesale foodstuffs, she was kind-hearted, lovely, approachable, and ever so considerate. Definitely, one of the best of my father’s siblings. She was the female leader of the Muslims of our hometown.

I learnt Monday afternoon that she had passed on, and she was interred according to Islamic rites on Sunday. Better to rewrite the feelings expressed here, unfortunate as it seems, each person has their individual issues and perspective of things, that might never be that well understood.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un. (Al-Quran 2:156) “Indeed, to Allah we belong and to Allah we shall return.”

The Vulture died of a ripe old age

Boys being boys

Gúnugún kìí kú léwe, in Yorubaland, there are sayings put to song and then played out with the talking drum. The tonal percussion of the talking drum with its musicality immediately registers with us and we engage by singing out the lyrics being played.

Then some boys probably took one of those sayings in songs and made a catcall out of it, whistling to the tune of the song. It became their call sign through adulthood into old age. Whenever one arrived at the other’s house, you heard the visitor whistle and the host responded. We soon learnt what it meant to great amusement.

Every kind of old

The first part, as written above translates to, ‘The vulture never dies in youth.’ The full saying itself speaks to growing old and growing old well.

Gúnugún kìí kú léwe, kí ẹ dàgbà kì ẹ dogbó, kí ẹ fi gbogbo ara hewú bíi ti Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun. The vulture never dies in youth, may you grow old and wizened, growing grey hairs all over your body like the beaded crown of the Alaafin of Oyo.

The monarch of the Oyo kingdom in Yorubaland is known as the Aláàfin, meaning the owner of the palace. He wears the rare Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun crown which according to tradition is first worn at least 10 years after coronation. It was made centuries ago. The colourfully decorated white crown has a veil of white strings looking like braids of hair, hence, the simile of grey hairs and the Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun. Click on the link for the pronunciation of Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun.

The Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun crown courtesy of NairaLand.

The whole saying reads like a prayerful incantation for long life and between these boys and lifelong friends, it seems to have been fulfilled.

Back to their story

Their lives more or less ran in parallel similarities, both went into the same profession of accountancy, whilst debatable, they were lotharios and Casanovas at one, they took second wives and started second families, built homestead houses literally opposite each other in our village. The comings and goings of one were always known by the other. The children are good and tight friends even if we live in far-flung places.

He was a jovial, affable, humorous man who anytime he saw me called me by the nickname Akinse, Akinse, and the last time we chatted on the phone he wondered why I hadn’t visited after all this while. That is another story. I do recall that my stepmother also pressed me about visiting Nigeria for years, it was left an unfulfilled promise that the vicissitudes of the times has put out of reach. She passed on just over two weeks ago.

He was my father’s best friend from childhood, and I know he will be sorely missed by many, including his children. Adieu! Otunba Ogunjimi Taiwo, may your gentle soul rest in peace. The vulture did die at a great number of years in his 80s. A life to be remembered, celebrated, and honoured.

In gratitude, I acknowledge the help of @KolaTubosun & @Bishopade who on Twitter helped me find the meaning and use of Ṣẹ́ṣẹ́ Ẹfun.

After death, what do your tributes matter?

Speaking good of the dead

I have always wondered about the eerie spectre of tributes about someone has passed to the Great Beyond because, except if we know quite differently, whether the person so fondly memorialised and eulogised to the point of hagiography ever in the realm of time and space beyond the realm of our perception gets to have a viewing and hearing.

For in the beautiful things we get to say, have we once ventured when the person was present and able to interact and respond we deployed the effusive praise that they are left to gush and blush at the surfeit of encomium and praise that they are left speechless in accepting compliments and so emotional in experiencing the genuine expression of love, respect, and awe.

To the hearing of others

In the absence of that uniquely special case of tributes breaking through the veil to the intangible ethereal eternal timelessness that encompasses, you are left thinking, the glowing obituaries and expressions of sympathy, condolence, and regret are all demonstrations for the living, for once the spirit and soul have left the bodily presentation of the person we once knew, they are forever gone and out of reach or touch.

It should make us reflect on what we could have done with the chance and opportunity to speak and act, it should not matter if at the end one brings another perspective to the enigmatic personality, but to have done things when they could be fully appreciated and not so much in search of recognition but in the unconditional celebration of those who matter.

Doing it when it matters

It does not mean we should be quick to act, to speak or to praise, however, every acknowledgement and recognition of another is not just an act of genuine kindness, it is an expression of gratitude for what they have brought to and contributed to our lives. Until we can hear and speak with the dearly departed outside of esoteric and questionably paranormal environments, our tributes, though making for interesting listening and hearing are absolutely worthless to those we portend to celebrate.

The words of Mark Antony ring loud and clear, for there was nothing more he could do for Ceasar after he had been assassinated, but to lead the procession for his burial.

Thought Picnic: The privilege of attending good schools

Catching a wish

As I leaf through my back catalogue of The Week news magazines many of which I have not read, but I have settled on February into March, the news stories are probably stale but the perspectives give an interesting insight into how people expected things to turn and how reality turned out.

For instance, in Issue 1266 of the 15^th of February, the market view suggested, ‘“There’s a growing view in financial markets that there’s light at the end of the tunnel.” Kit Juckes of Société Générale on hopes that the coronavirus outbreak might be plateauing. Quoted in the Financial Times.’ With hindsight, that now appears to have been wishful thinking for on the 11^th of March the World Health Organisation declared the COVID-19 coronavirus a pandemic. [WHO]

Summaries of the dead

There are many sections in The Week magazine, but this is not the blog for that topic, however, I read the full-page obituary of Issur Danielovitch, 103, whose life is definitely a story of note, it would go into my encyclopaedia of useless knowledge that comes in useful when making conversation with strangers somewhere. Yes, as your brow furrowed, that was the birth name of Kirk Douglas. [The New York Times – Subscriber access]

The next issue I picked up which I read partway through had two personalities in the Obituaries section, the first, Harry Gregg, OBE, 87, a former Manchester United goalkeeper who was a survivor and hero of the Munich air disaster where he rescued an infant and her pregnant mother as well as some of his teammates. [Guardian]

Yet, it is Wilfred De’Ath, 82, whose obituary had the most interesting story to tell as I read it. The heading read “Scrounger and vagrant who found fame through The Oldie.” It made me wonder what he could have done to deserve the exclusive real estate of a half-page reference in The Week magazine.

Good school plaudits

It got me thinking about why it was necessary to attend a very good school as part of the academic and life development. Whilst no knowledge is lost regardless of the school you attend, how the quality of school attended can set you up for life cannot be underestimated. For me, it would be my primary school education and then my postgraduate studies.

Now, The Week magazine touts itself as “The best of all media in one magazine”, it is an aggregator or rather, a curator of media from newspapers, magazines and journals from all around the globe for the week of publication, editing, abridging and excerpting articles, opinions, reviews, and schedules into a weekly magazine that I find a bit more informative than The Economist.

Wilfred De’Ath was of Huguenot and German descent, he attended Queen Elizabeth's School, Barnet, ranked as one of the most academically successful secondary schools in England before going on to Oriel College, Oxford. He then became the youngest ever producer at the BBC, aged just 23, where he shared an office with the now Lord Melvyn Bragg. [The Oldie – Wilfred De’Ath columns] [The Oldie – 80^th Birthday interview]

Going places

He worked with and interviewed many public figures, he was a well-connected man, moving in rarefied circles until a divorce and libel suit cost him his life savings. He chose to be a scrounger and vagrant, lived between England and France, stealing from church collection boxes and going to jail for leaving hotels without settling his bills. He appeared to enjoy the court appearances.

His apparent big break came when an Oxford contemporary offered him a column in The Oldie magazine that he was described as “a George Orwell for our times.” In the excerpted obituary, having set up home in Cambridge, he neither reformed nor repented, whilst still earning a reputation as a respected columnist.

Never belittle the small

This made me think about how many people we see dishevelled and unkempt who could have an interesting backstory, smart and intelligent that you’re left astounded if you engage them. In chatting to my mum a few days ago, I mentioned a neighbour from our ancestral village that no one had time for, the reviled Iya Soye, who at the break of dawn, was fully inebriated and staggering, always having an audible conversation with herself.

There were times I met and respectfully acknowledged her, we managed a conversation out of which were gems of wisdom and good sense, the lifelong lesson I took from those encounters was everyone has a story and you should expect to be surprised at what you might learn from people judged, stigmatised, castigated, or reviled.

Other school benefits

Then on the schools' side, some of the best friends we would ever make would be in school, whilst I do not retain close friendships from my secondary school, I am in regular contact with an acquaintance from primary school and my best friend is from my time in a polytechnic in 1984.

Furthermore, it is how the privilege of a good education which builds character moulded to your personality and your outlook to life to open doors before you by force of talent, association, opportunity, fortune, luck, or fate. He was not afraid to be reckless, the law did not scare him, he has well-written views, he knew himself and couldn’t care less what others thought about him.

Life is what you make it, with paths going in different and sometimes unpredictable ways. In the end, your obituary might just find someone writing a blog about things they learnt from how you lived.

Thought Picnic: Planning Ends

In the space of two minutes I read of two deaths all from my timeline on Twitter. I clicked on the associated links and read the stories of men who had done something their friends and colleagues that have survived them now write of.

Total recall

In the first article, I first saw vulnerability, the man was just a year older than I am and sadly had succumbed to cancer that had become malignant that all the surgeon could do was cut out what he could and leave the rest having closed him up he had general banter with him before telling him of the metastasis.

Did it not jolt my memory? It sure did, I have seen cancer up close before and it took residence under the sole of my left foot and had a way of letting me know it was there because the pain was unbearable even after the four different pain medications I took to just offer me minutes of peace in days of ache. I was sorry.

Suddenly taken

In the second article, it was about a man with wife and children, two already of age and the other two just coming of age. To all it will be a harrowing loss, I am saddened for them.

However, he did not know death was coming, he had just taken his dog for a walk and there – he had a heart attack and there his sojourn in this world ended.

His story now being told of those who knew him showed that he had been involved in interesting technological developments, ideas for business and even a start-up firm.

Planning ends

In both cases, I felt, whilst they had gone, they were not forgotten, then I wondered about what I will be remembered for and if it was not yet clear, I had better start working on something.

The first probably knew of his impending demise, wrote about it and faced its coming, though nothing is said of his having his own nuclear family. The other man probably did prepare too but in a different way as a premonition in investments, insurances and other means to ensure if he were to happen upon some misfortune his survivors will be cared for adequately.

Besides, one must have friends who will even if it is to close that chapter, tell your story before that book is closed to gather dust in the annals of time.

May both these men rest in peace and may all those they left behind find strength and fortitude to bear their losses.

Whitney Houston

Their enduring music

I would not consider myself a critic of any sort when it comes to artistes and their musicality but amazing superlatives cannot be exhausted on a number of singers and performers who have walked in the sands of our times and have so suddenly become part of the edifice of history.

Beyond classical music, my tastes are not overly eclectic; I have listened to many but bought only a few like Luther Vandross, Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston. They, in my view had such a quality of ability and talent that just touched the soul when they gave voice to anything.

I got to see Michael Jackson in 1992 at Wembley Station when he was at the height of his performing genius, it is a memory that 20 years on is still as fresh as if I have just left the concert.

I was in Berlin the night news came in that Michael Jackson had died and we now know that for all the wealth and talent he had one thing he was unable to get enough or any of was sleep. He purchased every means to get sleep and the negligence of his supposedly trusted physician administering drugs in the absolutely wrong environment and with the necessary expertise lead to his death.

And now Whitney

Whitney Houston had a voice that just was angelic, nothing sounded like it before and for all the similarities and imitations I have heard, this was one person whose fraction of expression in terms of her possibilities and ability left many in her wake.

What I loved about her singing was the control she exercised over her voice with that usually quavering lower jaw, she was closest to humanly divine.

I am saddened that even if her death were not directly related to the troubles we have been regaled with in the media, the reason for substance abuse is probably a desperate quest for happiness.

Rarely for sale

Like Michael Jackson before her, she probably expended her wealth and resources in the search for that elusive goal of happiness, a commodity that is rarely on sale regardless how one can attempt to create the environment to foster it.

The many things we attempt to purchase to fulfill our lives like sleep, happiness, love or health are never on the shelves, they are to be found in our hearts, in our souls with the peace and contentment that allows us to enjoy those things.

The shortcuts to getting these things are almost always fatal, if not suddenly there is chronic sense to it, you can only wonder if when she sang the greatest love of all she was trying hard to affirm an absence within herself.

Where do broken lives go?

In the quest for these essential elements of a good life you find yourself asking in a paraphrase of one of her other hit songs. Where do broken lives go? Do they find the rest, the joy and the love they have always sought, within themselves, with others or in things that cause them great harm.

In the end, they like us have the same desires and troubles, where some of us might have resigned ourselves to our fates or adjusted to the circumstances we were in, they probably thought with the means at their disposal they had a greater chance – a chance that for some became a chance too far.

However, one must not take away from the fact that this was a woman of exceptional talent whose expression and achievement will hug the record books for long but more importantly, I have been blessed to appreciate what she had to offer in music, singing and life.

I end with the tweet I posted when I learnt of Whitney Houston’s passing.

Whitney Houston - I hope your broken heart has found its way home. Rest in peace. Angelic voice. http://is.gd/mV8RhT

May God rest your once troubled soul.

Nigeria: My wet tissues for President Yar'Adua

The passing of a president

The mystique and mystery surrounding the life and health of President Umaru Yar’Adua has now been obliterated with the announcement that he passed away in the Presidential Villa late on Wednesday, the 5th of May 2010 at the age of 58.

As one is saddened by this event, it does appear as one has speculated that the man was quite so ill in November 2009 when he was rushed out of the country under the pretext of attending the Lesser Hajj and opening a university in Saudi Arabia.

Saudi Arabia offered and provided a completely hermetical seal on all information about the extent of his illness and the seriousness of his condition beyond the notice that he had acute pericarditis as his court manipulated issues in his name for 3 months leaving the country leaderless, rudderless and listless.

Speaking no ill

Out of respect for the dead one is expected not to speak ill of the dead, however, for all the platitudes and praise that might be uttered on his passing one does hope that a form words would be spoken that are truthful, honest, just, fair and representative of the interminable angst he and/or his coterie of handlers put the country through.

We never fully learnt of how ill he was, we never really knew how capable he was and all the hopes that seemed to accompany his selection as President appeared to fizzle out under the speculation and rumours that were allowed to thrive anytime he was rushed out of the country for treatment.

He would probably would be known as the best figurehead president we ever had as his ministers became a law unto themselves and ran riot truncating the progress that was being made in the war against corruption and other influential people pitched against each other through proxies of unrest in the North and the Niger Delta, the ruling party became the beacon of every unwholesome thing imaginable.

In all he did

One would suppose the most laudable thing about his tenure would be the banking reforms that accompanied the appointment of the new Central Bank governor because his deputy who was appointed Acting President through the precedent of embarrassed necessity has systematically dismantled and reconstructed the government with some corrective determination.

President Umaru Yar’Adua even if he had resigned honourably when he found himself unable and incapable of holding office would still have been accorded the full dignity of the state funeral and a period of mourning – having died in office; he will still get the same but with seriously mixed feelings - our compassion and sympathies must outweigh our inclination to be indifferent if not dismissive.

Before one in the search of praise begins to field encomiums with dissimulation he was in general a nice man, believed to be an honest man, apparently a modest man and a president beyond which history must be given the latitude to construct the context of his life.

Nigeria had already moved on since the 9th of February 2010, as we mourn his passing, we hope and pray that our President Goodluck Jonathan the very best in continuing the viable parts of President Umaru Musa Yar’Adua legacy.

The President is dead, long live the President, God bless Nigeria, let the future begin.

Sources

BBC News - Nigerian President Yar'Adua is dead, says state TV

Al Jazeera English - Africa - Nigeria's president Yar'Adua dead

Nigerian president Umaru Yar'Adua dead - Telegraph

A barking rich bitch

Between class and trash

Two grand dames of New York died within a week of each other and the Economist ran an obituary comparing and contrasting both women.

Brooke Astor who died at 105 had an air of comportment, grace and class about her, whilst Leona Helmsley dying at 87 was literally the opposite.

Both had a sense of eccentricity about them, though this only became all the more compelling on the death of the latter.

The rich bitch

Now, the best retort I have ever heard at being called a bitch went thus.

I am married to the witch, we’ve got a cat called snitch and the dog is the bitch.

So the “Queen of Mean” knowing she could not take her money to the grave, gave $5 million each to two of her four grandchildren, cut out the other two for reasons they should know which can never be resolved except in a séance or in court and gave $12 million to her bitch called Trouble.

Now, Trouble had better have some seriously good lawyers, because this would spell trouble unparalleled as the ones left out would scramble to do Trouble out of her well deserved Pedigree Chum gourmet meals prepared by 6-star barking Michelin chefs.

At death which would almost certainly come quickly for all sorts of natural reasons, the bitch shall be interred in the family mausoleum.

Beyond that, $3 million has been set aside to tend the graves, such hubris in death is legendary, it is like dust to gold dust.

Derision follows ultimately

Beyond this is the moral reality with sombre reflection of the fact that the Good Book does say that one should leave in store for the children and the children’s children, this comes by setting your house in order before you depart, something she obviously failed to achieve.

The fact that she could not find anyone of her descendants to take on the upkeep of the dog but her brother who walked away with $2 million less than the dog is interesting to say the least.

Herein, we have a case of those who were rich beyond their dreams and in leaving to the great beyond sowed even more animosity as to bring disdain upon their passing.

This situation presents a lesson and definitely no good example, it would appear, the evil women do can also live after them. How a dog can really survive with the poo-change of $12 million escapes me when Nobel, Ford, Rockfeller, Carnegie & Wellcome blazed the trail of large bequests to humanity for charity, endowment and development.

So much for a life well lived with the epitaph – In all the opportunity she had to bequeath to humanity something to celebrate her memory, all that she had can be summed in one phrase – She left it all to the dog.

The ‘pause’ of Benji in bereavement

In death we find kinship

Every once in a while, you find similarities between cultures and that is quite instructive. I knew years ago in Nigeria, there were sections in the dailies where obituaries and “in memoriam” notices were placed, some taking up whole pages as the graveyard vista of mere tombstones and humongous mausoleums played out either the achievements of the dead or the aggrandisement of the living.

In some way, they all made very interesting reading, so it is no wonder that sometimes, I find myself reading having traversed a link from the Wikipedia main page the Recent Deaths section.

Deaths are sometimes a reflection of life and it bothers me when one month had young people barely half my age dying from violence in the streets, then you have middle-aged people dying of conditions that only used to affect people a lot older, indeed, you take something away, be it a warning, a clue, an instruction or some weird feeling – what would one want written about oneself when you do not have the means to seek edition of the detail?

Brief illness syndrome

However, back to the listings, another thing I noticed then was that as I commented in a blog a few days ago – I cannot remember where I placed the comment, methinks, blogs require a comment tracker for the commentators to keep track of territory one has marked in the “Blogosphere”, I really hate that word.

Nigerians rarely die of some chronic, protracted or even terminal illness, most die of the epidemiologically pathogenic brief illness – it needs to be properly researched, this is in light of the clean bill of health the President of Nigeria gave the presidential candidate selected to replace him.

Family notices

So, I was reading one of the Dutch high-brow papers, well, skimming it, the standard of Dutch in those papers is radically different from the Dutch you see in the free metro rags which is somewhat easier to read.

The family notices can be found on the back page of Economic section, exactly, and there was three notices – obituaries – about the same lady, where her family and nieces and nephews addressed her fully, all names, six in all with the obligatory title of Jonkvrouwe – which is a rarity in the Netherlands except for royalty, the English equivalent is Dame.

The siblings however still see her as sister, as one would without all the trimmings.

In the main family notice, usually the persons are listed with their locations and her husband of 51 years appeared first and then the children many away some abroad, nice enough.

The importance of Benji

Then, there was Benji who appeared just below the husband but before the children and a little picture to the left of what I think were paws. I had to ask, do these paws mean anything?

Benji magnified 800% - taken from the obituary.

Well, there were only two; it could be a bear, a kangaroo or well, just the representation of a pet; dog, cat or something so cuddling and definitely not a Tamagotchi or an Aibo.

Well, a pet just feels as much loss for its owner even if we do not recognise that pets do have feelings, apart from the fact that pets in some homes are almost substitute companions for human beings.

We live and we learn, I pray Benji finds that fortitude and strength to bear the loss.

PS: Pause in the title should really be paws

Rotten journalism ruins obituary

Death at a great age

In Nigeria we have a seemingly mature perspective of death especially when the deceased was full of years with children, grand-children and great grand-children. In fact, I once attended the Christian wake of a prominent Nigerian who died at 89, what I noticed was that no one was mourning in black, but everyone was in a radiant blue.

Basically, we rejoice with the survivors when a full life with generations of issues predeceases their offspring – they are congratulated and the deceased is lauded.

So, I read from Ayoke’s blog that Mrs. Margaret Ekpo, one of the foremost female politicians in Nigeria has died at the age of 92.

The women who shined for us

This brings to memory the famous women of Nigeria who during the struggles for Nigerian independence ensured that the voice of hand that rocks the cradle was not silent as we determined our future. People like Mrs. Ransome-Kuti, Mrs. Oyinkan Abayomi and Lady Ademola blazed the trail in the emancipation of women in Nigeria, to them; a great debt of gratitude is owed.

The source article on ThisdayOnline does this great departed no honour; now, my blog is not perfect, I do proofread and check my spelling and grammar many times over but sometime fail to see errors.

Rotten journalism

ThisDayOnline is a newspaper of journalists who produce copy in English; it would probably have an editor that oversees all material before it is published for global viewing.

How Mrs Ekpo’s son who announced her death twice acquired the female gender in their copy is not only annoying, it is sloppy journalism, leaving much to be desired.

Mr Eddy Ekpo would have confirmed that his mother died in hospital and remains of his mother would be returned to the family home in due course. Mrs Ekpo, having passed on, would now acquire the possessive past tense of having had 12 grand-children and so many more great grand-children, regardless of the living status of the children.

Naijablog has time and again lamented the poor quality of Nigerian journalism; this example just shows there is much to be done about people who write for a profession.

Beyond all this, Mrs. Margaret Ekpo who served as representative on the Eastern House of Chiefs from 1948-1966 and was a delegate to Nigerian Constitutional Conference in the 1950s and a Nigerian delegate to international conferences in the 1960s – she was a worthy delegate – my her soul find repose as we remember her.

References

The offending article Courtesy of This Day Online (PDF)

Obituaries for the living

Prognostication of news

With great interest I note the number of times the media has published the obituaries of persons still living as rumour defeats the patience to apply meticulous methods to the gathering of news.

Only too recently, we had the episode of the West Virginia mine disaster where reports of death and life were confused on the numbers of who was dead or alive.

So, it is with poignancy that I heard the admonition of the director of the Hadassah Hospital to act responsibly in the dissemination of news concerning Ariel Sharon and his condition; stating that any changes to his status would be announced promptly by the hospital only.

This was done in disputing the fact that rumour was already pervading the air of the demise of Ariel Sharon, however, he lives; as he tethers at the portal of the great beyond as those who really have their prayers answered pray for a miracle of restoration.

Miracles or debacles

From what one has observed, miracles mean many things to diverse people and the majority opinion lies with the desperation of a situation beyond which there is no hope, whilst the other lies with the expectation of change where hope and faith in God drives the powers of nature to restore strength to what was considered impossible.

Many get their miracles, either by being overwhelmed with helplessness that submits to despair or by being overjoyed with realisation that prayer is really meant to work or else it is useless.

What comes around…?

Just about 14 months ago, as Yasser Arafat was being transported to Paris for treatment, the Israeli cognoscenti predicted he would not return, I observed also the placards in Lebanese Palestinians that called out “Death to Sharon”.

No love lost amongst the children of Abraham, it seems; what a world of compassion we live in, where to be magnanimous is to be foolish and to be bitter is to be human. As a race, we humans have still got a long way to go.

One is not against the preparedness that greets the expectation of a great man’s passing as obituaries are drafted, edited, refined and primed for publication. The news network death vigil that accompanied the passing of Pope John Paul II over 4 days in March/April 2005 gives one pause for thought.

It was like the networks were the ECG machine connected to the dear Pope’s vital systems which were to trigger the outpouring of waves of news analysis and death tributes just as the last breath was about the depart the nostrils even if the heart still had one last beat to pound.

Publish and be mocked

Despite the mistakes of the media in the poor reporting of events, one can almost bet that Ariel Sharon would probably be declared dead long before he has departed just as news networks can call elections for a candidate long before the numbers are properly tallied. American Election 2000, for instance.

No doubt, the mouse is primed to click on the publish button as soon as truth or rumour pervades the atmosphere; that it would be so gratifying to really see Mr Sharon shame all those writers as he rises like Lazarus to take his people to the promised peace that has so far eluded the promised land.

If this mistake does get repeated, one might just advocate a news certification and verification standards body that would eliminate the unpleasant competition for publication in anticipation of consequent fulfilment.

I now know, I do not really want to be the first to know.

Here lies ...

Greatest person competitions

It was with interesting amusement that we all witnessed the climax of the mockery of history shows that tries to extract from popular opinion the greatest personality of a nation.

When the BBC conducted this event in 2002, Winston Churchill [1] was voted the first, and then in 2003, Sir Isaac Newton [2] who was sixth in the previous year was voted the first.

What a difference a year makes, or some people have really done a biographical study of the contenders and begun thinking rather than following the media hype.

Mind you, the English seem to have a knack for inventing new shows that get copied by other institutions like the Weakest Link, Who wants to be a Millionaire and now this charade of greatest countrymen.

So the circus came to the Netherlands amidst a lot of noise, a murder, tensions between communities and the reminders of a very recent political event.

Striding past a villa in a village in the Veneto region of Italy, a slightly weathered tombstone bears a newly engraved message - Here lies the greatest Dutchman of them all. [3]

You would be forgiven for thinking it was Vincent van Gogh, the painter, who came tenth in the list, but he was buried in French; nor was it Anne Frank, the refugee Jewish diarist from the Nazi times whose nationality was contested during this event, she died in a concentration camp.

Nor was it Rembrandt van Rijn, another popular Dutch painter and engraver; William of Orange who at one time was King of England and considered the founder of the Dutch nation came second. Erasmus is someone you might have heard of and for football fans Johan Cruyff who came sixth.

All these people represent a very positive and recognisable image of the enterprising, tolerant, intelligent and innovative Dutch, just like Philips and the invention of compact discs.

More so, there are no populist politicians, but people who painstakingly went about their business and in the process were recognised for what they did, what they represented and who they are.

Pim who?

So, it was with utterly bewilderment that we received the information that Pim Fortuyn was voted the greatest Dutchman ever.

It is likely, that you do not know this man, but he has the unfortunate record of being the first political murder in the Netherlands in over 300 years. He was gunned down by an animal rights activist in May 2002 in the media park of the assembly of radio and television stations in a distant Amsterdam suburb.

In my previous blog, I made mention of him in relation to a more recent murder of a descendant to Vincent van Gogh and how his rise to prominence was as a result of challenging the unfriendly commentary of minority group Muslim clerics in Rotterdam.

However, in all that can be said about Pim Fortuyn [4], he was vocally on the political scene for less than a year, he had quite a number of personal achievements, he was quite eccentric and was not affected by his alternative lifestyle related to his sexual orientation.

However, he represented a seemingly popular view that no one would express regarding immigration, integration and Islam; however, those views earned him lots of votes.

The media in general compared his banter to that of fascists and extreme right-wing propaganda. His animosity to Europe was quite evident, and though he displayed a flair for exercising free speech, he was not an espousing of the Dutch values of tolerance and friendliness.

After his death, his party which was a tribute to egomania in that it was simply "Pim Fortuyn's List" came second in the elections, but fell into terminal decay that within 6 months they caused the government to fall and then lost most of their seats in the election that came there after.

However, the vote occurred in the light of the recent killing of Theo van Gogh who is mistakenly given the accolade of a champion of free speech. He was NOT.

In a twist of irony; Mr Pim Fortuyn who so spoke of Dutch values and expression, defending the history, culture and political soul of the Dutch to the very end, died in the Netherlands but was buried far away from what he was martyred in protecting - in a little village in the region of Veneto in Italy.

Just as the highest point in the Netherlands is the platform from which you view the "highest" natural point in the Netherlands [5], be not surprised if whilst on holiday next summer in Italy you wonder how you can across a piece of Holland, where the greatest Dutchman is laid to rest.

References

[1] Churchill voted greatest Briton
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/tv_and_radio/2509465.stm

[2] Newton voted greatest Briton
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/3151333.stm

[3] Fortuyn buried after Dutch bid farewell
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/europe/1978602.stm

[4] Pim Fortuyn - Obituary
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/1971462.stm

[5] Drielandenpunt - the highest point in the Netherlands
http://www.strw.leidenuniv.nl/~vdmeulen/deeper/Articles/Drielandenpunt.html