On 10 October 2015, at about five o’clock in the evening, I visited my friend, John Teitei, at his Yenagoa residence, just across the field from Alamieyeseigha Road, Opolo. He took one look at my casual swag, and it struck him that I had not heard the news. What news could that be?
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard’?
‘Heard what’?
‘Alamieyeseigha is dead’.
Ten years ago, I was petrified to think that someone could make a joke like that. It sounded like a terrible joke. Ten years later, I can testify to the fact that I haven’t set eyes on Alamieyeseigha, or heard him say anything to anybody.
For 10 years now, Alamieyeseigha and I have not even said hello to each other on the phone he bought for me, which goes to prove that the man is no longer upon the face of the earth. He has since levitated into eternity, survived only by his work and his memory.
I can’t claim to have known him better than anybody, family, friends or staff. I can only speak for myself. I can only recall the little I know of the man who was known as the Governor-General of the Izon nation, the first civilian governor of Bayelsa State, a man who gave me a chance to serve in his government at a level I consider lofty.
I wrote the speeches he read, and he would not take a speech from anybody else unless I saw it. How can I forget a man who had such massive confidence in my humble abilities?
I still owe him a book, at least one book. He expected that of me. He looked forward to that eventuality. He had gone so far as to whisper to me that he would announce ten million naira on the day that book would be launched, and he would give me a jeep to boot.
He is not here to do any of that, but I will still go ahead and write the book, one that has his face on it, with my signature on it. I will tell my own story, the little I know of the man, Alamieyeseigha, from the time he called me to work with him, to my last encounter with him.
Perhaps I should start with our last meeting. He had called me out of the blue, and invited me to meet him at his Opolo residence. I went at the appointed time, and saw him seated before a wide-screen television.
He was covering a better part of the settee with his massive frame. He waved me to a seat, smiled at me, and then told me to pick up the nylon bag on the table. I picked it up and handed it over to him.
‘No, it’s yours’, he said.
I looked inside the white nylon bag, and there was a small black box containing the largest phone I have ever held in my hand. The price tag on it was N100,010.
‘It’s your new phone. Now you will not give me excuses that you didn’t get my call because your phone was bad’.
At first, I did not have anything to say, and then I remembered that there are still two words that cover the ground.
‘Thank you’, I said. ‘Thank you, Your Excellency’.
I had worked with the man for six years in office and 10 years out of office, and this was the first time he was actually going to a shop and buying me a personal gift. That meant a great deal to me.
But Alamieyeseigha was already telling me that he had a speech to give on 6 June to mark the fifth memorial anniversary of the passing of Chief Nicholas Frank-Opigo. Did I know anything about him? I said it was my job to find out. I know for a fact that he wrote a book entitled, Down River Nun, and I was the publisher.
Alamieyeseigha looked at me as if I was up to some mischief. Tell me more, he said. So, I told him the little I knew, that Franki-Opigo was a classmate to Chinua Achebe, and he would have written a great novel too, if he had put his mind to it. The rest I will write in the speech and let you have it in good time, even if the notice is so short.
‘Let me have it latest by Noon tomorrow. The programme is for two hours later’, he said.
The time now was seven o’clock in the evening. I had only the night to research the speech and finish it for him to deliver. I would have to forego sleep, and I did.
The following day, two hours to the start of the programme, I met him at the entrance to the Banquet Hall, now named after him. He had just arrived at the venue. He had slept well. He said he could afford to sleep whenever he gave me a speech to do, and he was right. He was sure of his ovation.
He was wearing a deep blue woko with tiny white stripes, and large studs to go with it. On his head was his trademark black Italian wide-brim hat. He said he would call me. I thanked him and left for the next assignment.
It was a routine we were used to. He would call me suddenly, and I would be there for him as a duty. He saw me as the John Rambo of his government, and I saw him as the Colonel whose orders must be taken.
It was a task I saw myself doing whether he paid me or not. I simply enjoyed writing speeches for him to read. The very fact that my own words were coming out of Alamieyeseigha’s mouth was enough satisfaction for me.
In all the time I worked with him, I faltered only once. I allowed him to see my rough draft, and he could not make head or tail of it. That speech turned out to be the first year testimonial of his government, delivered on the floor of the Bayelsa State of Assembly.
It ranked as the longest speech that year, anxious as he was to prove to the world that his administration was at work. The more I tried to cut the speech short, the more information he brought to bear on it. He wanted everyone to know every bit of what he was doing, and nothing short of a sectoral report would do.
I told him I had not finished work, but I brought it for him to see that work was in progress since he was putting so much pressure on me. He lost his temper, and only found it when I brought him the finished speech. From then on, I didn’t let him see my draft copies again. I finished my script in the privacy of my study, and let him have his printed copy. Chikena!
In his last days, Alamieyeseigha had confided in me that he wanted to start a radio station, and he was wondering if I could manage it for him. He was pursuing his licence with the National Broadcasting Commission, he said, and he would let me know when it came through. I was excited at the prospect. The station was to be called Special FM. It remains a wish.
