John Abba Ogbodo: Death is a crafty thief

I still remember that bright Wednesday afternoon. Yourself, myself, Uchenna Awom, Obiora Ani, and Elder George Orji chatted and laughed so warmly as usual at the National Assembly complex. You and I held hands as we made our way to the White House. We had hoped for a perfect trip as usual. I tried reaching you in the early hours of that dark Thursday, February 28, 2013 to know if you would like to join me and Egbon Ismail Omipidan in my car since I had decided to travel by road. By the time you returned the call at 9:53am, you told me you were already travelling in a chartered car along with Uchenna Awom  and Taiwo Adisa. In fact, you told me you were already heading towards Lokoja. You were in your lively and jovial best. Nothing, no premonitions whatsoever, that death was lurking somewhere by the road, or that it was our very last conversation. Yet, that is just the reality that fate has thrust on my laps. Death is a crafty thief.
If death was not a crafty rogue, why didn’t he challenge you to a wrestling bout? He would have discovered to his peril why you were Ogbodo the energetic. He would have known you were Ogbodo the courageous. Are you not the Ogbodo who dared fear, who looked the high and mighty in the face and told them your mind, your conviction, your truth in writing? Your pen punch a lone would have been enough to floor death. Unfortunately, death came upon you like the thief he is.
Again, if death were not a cowardly thief, why didn’t he tell us he was going to take you away? He would have discovered to his peril your monumental achievement that made you stand solid like the Rock of Gibraltar. He would have been amazed at your followership and the armies of friends, well wishers, colleagues, relations, associates, the high and mighty men of our society who would have resisted his untoward agendum. You wrote your name in gold as correspondent at the House of Representatives for many years. You distinguished yourself as a correspondent in the Senate. You endeared yourself to the Nigeria Police where you also covered. At the Peoples Democratic Party, you were an oracle. The National Assembly would have raised whatever legislative intervention to bring death down from his Olympian heights. Your friend and brother, the Deputy President of the Senate would have moved one of his powerful motions to commandeer death away from your track. The Senate Press Corps and your colleagues at  The Guardian would have unleashed their pen-power. The Inspector General of Police would have emptied the whole police force onto the battle arena to humiliate death and rescue you. If it were a money matter, the people would have fallen on themselves to send you to the best hospitals in the world. Yes, death knew all this, and he came stealthily to whisk you away even before help could come. Death is a thief.
Nevertheless, you fought like a man. At the scene of your death, where an era ended, you showed forth yourself a warrior. In my bouts of sorrow and torrents of tears, I was consoled by the fact that death did not go away without bullet wounds and deep cuts. Yes, two elephants fought. As we say in the South East, mberede nyiri dike, ma mberede ka-eji ama dike (even a warlord is helpless when taken unawares, but it is at such times that the real warrior in a warlord is best revealed). The leveled grass and the pulled trees told the story of the epic battle as you resisted the furry of death. Death knew full well, that like Caesar, you were more dangerous than he. Though you were two lions littered in one day, you were by far the elder and more terrible. Yes, you were no coward that would die many times before his death. No, you fought like a gallant soldier who would die but once, knowing that death would come when it would come. A villager showed us the spot you bled to death, and behold, your blood was golden and royal even at death. Death is thief.
Dear Ogbodo One, my heart bleeds. O, great Ogbodo! Dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils shrunk to this little measure? I wish I could reverse the hands of the clock. How do I say goodnight at dawn? How do we explain that grim and stack darkness has suddenly enveloped a bright morning sun? How are the mighty fallen and the instruments of warfare broken. Our talking drum has broken in the heat of battle and the flutist has lost his bearing. The stream has choked the toad and the fish is drowned in the river. Death has made war upon our house. And the coward came, not as a gallant soldier, but a marauding and crafty raider. Yes, death is a thief.
However, the good news for us and bad news for death is that you only transited and never died, and would never die. Yes, we are consoled by the fact that you are too good to die and your legacies too splendid and entrenched to be obliterated even by death. You were hard work personified. Your humility and simplicity were excellent. You were a journalist’s journalist, a political pundit, a fearless commentator, an analyst with potent verdicts. Yes, death came too late, because you had already paid your dues in all respects. You were a consummate professional. You were friendly fellow, but friendship never beclouded your sense of judgment and conviction. You stood for what you believed in and you believed whatever you stood for. O! death where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? Death is a loser.
As you rest in peace, be rest assured that in your death, as in your lifetime, you remain a dear brother, a friend, a confidant, and my ally. Good night- even at dawn. Fare thee well.
  Anichukwu,   Special Adviser (Media) to Deputy President of the Senate, wrote from Abuja. <[email protected]>