The untold ‘story’ of the Man from Kano

But how might the “story” of the man from Kano be told by other than by the man himself? How might the man from Kano posture as the historian of life, his life, in the presence of his beloved mother whose prescience of the boy that became the wealthiest man of Africa is indubitable? Wait […]

But how might the “story” of the man from Kano be told by other than by the man himself? How might the man from Kano posture as the historian of life, his life, in the presence of his beloved mother whose prescience of the boy that became the wealthiest man of Africa is indubitable? Wait a minute! How might the “womb” and the “loin” tell the story of how the sperm got entangled with the egg, and the latter became a fetus which was endowed with the gravitas, at that decisive moment in the celestial world, to become the czar in the business world in Africa and an icon in corporate circles? How might we begin to tell the story of the man from Kano in ‘storeys’ without inviting attention to that historical-geographical space and enigmatic landscape known as Kano?

Thus when the news got to me a couple of days ago that the man from Kano was marking his birthday, my immediate response was not to celebrate what he has achieved, not to celebrate the billions under the ‘care’ and attention of the billionaire. It is not in my tradition to adore and adulate the ephemeral; I always pooh-pooh the attempt to celebrate the counted and the countable. I always take flight from the entrapments of the cozy and luxurious encampments, estates and palatial mansions of the rich. I shudder each time I behold the rich; I cringe every moment I behold the wealthy as he is manacled in the dreamland of opulence and affluence.

Thus when I learnt that he has added an extra year to the one he already lived before, I sought to remind him of one solemn, subtle and highly important fact- it has been sixty years he had been on the journey to meet his Creator. In other words, our brother from Kano has spent twenty one thousand nine hundred days on terrestrial earth, on his journey to meet His Majesty.

The similitude of our birthdays is like that of two drums. The first (drum “A”) is filled with, for example, eighty stones while the second (drum B”) is empty and placed beside the former. Each year we mark a birthday therefore, a stone is removed from drum “A” and dropped inside drum “B”. The irony of our life therefore is that we celebrate each time we ‘pick’ a stone from drum “A” in order to drop it inside drum “B”. We rejoice in the reduction of the years allotted and allocated to us. We celebrate the diminution in our account; we bask, out of ignorance, in the reality of our nearness to our destination.    

But the above is not my destination today. Rather, I thought it is very apposite and germane that we use the occasion of his birthday anniversary to tell some untold ‘stories’ about him.

It was over three decades ago. Venue was a certain University in the Southwest. Everybody had gathered to buy ‘shares’ in the ‘business’. The ‘business’ was the construction of the University mosque. The ‘shares’ were not meant to mature soon, nor in this world. Those who gathered that day for the fund raising ceremony were well apprised of the fact that ‘shares’ bought for and in the name of the Almighty are redeemable here and in the hereafter. They also knew that sometimes, and in line with His tradition, dividends from the Almighty are usually paid in tens and hundreds. While companies and corporate business enterprises may fold up and suffer bankruptcy, the ‘business’ of the Almighty never goes under.

Soon the ceremony began. Alhaj MKO Abiola, of blessed memory, was there that day. He was there as always to invest in the eternal. After a short while, donors were invited to come forward with their monies. The competition for the best heights in paradise had begun. After those who had achieved renown for their philanthropy had enjoyed their moments of adulation and fame, a man soon emerged from the unknown. Reports have it that he ventured near the arena of the event, beckoned to one of the organizers and then handed over to the latter such a huge sum of money that was second only to what Alhaj MKO Abiola had donated. When he was asked for his name, he gently responded: “This is from an anonymous donor”.

The anonymous donor of that day, reports have it, may have been the wealthiest African of today. “Wait a minute! What story would people tell about you even before you drop the last stone in drum B? “