Dedication: To all who must die.


Prologue
Our paths crossed each other one breezy evening at my favourite relaxing spot close to the river where I always go most weekends to relax, think and pen some poetry and imaginary fictions from my restless mind.
I essentially noticed the strange looking man for the third term that month, all alone, richly dressed and always busy with a voluminous book and a bottle of drink in a flask. My curiosity of who he might be aroused on his third visit as I watch him arrived in a navy blue BMW jeep with a Federal Capital plate number.
He was a tall slightly built man in his early fifties with a rich tan skin and a conspicuous grin on his well fed face. Today, he had on a multi colour African print shirt over a brown Chinos combat trouser and a brown leather sandal. And seated perfectly on his bold shining head was a brown hand weaved hat, the one commonly used by Fulani herdsmen and fishermen around here.
I became more curious as he suddenly stepped away from his glittering car and made his way towards where I was pretending to write something on my notebook, but in actual sense my mind and senses were both alert to his approaching figure.

“Hello there – young man, you always seems busy.” I heard him said aloud in a clear rich voice few distance from me his trademark grin never leaving his face.

I smiled up broadly at him my eyes taking on his bold steps as he made his way towards my direction.

“Good evening, sir” I responded momentary suspending what I was doing and sitting up to give him space.

“Evening - young man, I am sorry to disturb you, but I am a curious man, and I love satisfying my curiosity sometimes, especially if they look interesting. And I want to believe that whatever you’re doing here all alone must be interesting?”

It was more of a question than an observation so I smiled up again and responded calmly.

“Yes, sir, I am a writer and I am writing some vital lines.”

“Really?” he asked now more curious than before. He suddenly stared at my notebook and the few magazines and newspapers I had brought along. “A writer, that is nice.” He added and dropped his big frame beside me. “So, what are you writing?”

“But, sir, I don’t really know you, and in my profession it is dangerous to give out information about your project to strangers.” I replied boldly still smiling.

He stared quizzically at me thoughtfully, and then burst into a chock of laughter. “Yes- yes, yes young man. I agree with you. The world is full with dangerous people; especially strangers.” He finally said after a break from his choking laughter. “ I am sorry, my name is Chief Douglas Odunga, and I am a business man. I love coming to this place to see nature and admire its natural temperament.” He added slowly with a grin.

“My pleasure, sir, my name is Dodo; I am a writer and a Journalist.” I introduced myself warmly with a smile and a bow of my head. “I am addicted to this place. I am devoted to everything around here.” I told him proudly.

“So, what are you writing?’ he asked again unable to contain his curiosity.

“Well, I am strictly penning some poetry for now.” I replied lifting up my notebook.

He stared thoughtfully at the book and stretched out his hand. I noticed the expensive Swiss chronograph watch on his right hand briefly and then silently handed him the notebook. He collected it happily and slowly flipped through the pages, pausing here and there to read through some of my poems. I noticed his sincere concentration and an occasional wide smile on his face as he read through. He paused abruptly between some pages and stared intently at me.

“What do you know or think about death?” he asked his eyes boring into mine.

I stared at the open page in his hand and glanced at the title of the poem he was reading: When I die. I then smiled up at him before responding.

“Death is that uninvited stranger that must visit all of us one day and steal us away” I told him.

“Young man, I like you and I like your poems. They are thought-provoking and inspirational. Can you write a book?” He suddenly threw this question at me with a smile.

“ A book, it all depends on what the book is all about.” I answered not sure where he was heading to.

“ Alright. I am actually talking about a story, a real life story.”

“A real life story about what or who?” I asked rising my eyebrows curiously.

“ Yes, a real life story about death, about me”. He leisurely announced with his grin.

I was shocked at his response and at the same time, I became a little scared and suspicious of his presence and wondered if I was actually discussing with a ghost.

“Don’t be scare young man; I am not what you think.” He suddenly said as if reading my mind. “You don’t have anything to worry or be scared about. At least we are not the only one around here at the moment.’” He tried to reassure me and pointed at the various human activities going on around us.

My eyes silently took on the busy canoe boys with their passengers as they travel to and fro through the river, and the few busy fishermen around us, including some few group of sugarcane sellers and enthusiastic young swimmers around. But, still, I felt not too comfortable with the strange man and his curiosity. And as if still reading my mind he brought out a plastic ID card from his breast pocket and dropped it in my hand.

“That is me. I am a living Nigerian and an easy going business man. I like your writings and I want you to write my story; a real life story that happened to me few months ago. I have always wanted to tell this interesting story to the world, but I am not a writer and only a good writer can help communicate my life experience to the world. I believe you’re that person I have been looking for.” He announced his eyes staring boldly at me and his ID card in my hand.

I stared thoughtfully at him, and then silently scrutinized the ID. Satisfied he was the same person, I smiled up at him. “Why do you think I am the real person you are looking for? You have not seen any of my prose and moreover we are just talking for the first time today.” I complained, not too certain if I was interested in his offer.

“You are the real person I am looking for. Like I earlier told you, I believe in nature and I believe in serendipity. What you call providence. I believe it is part of our destiny that we should meet here and also part of nature that you are the one to write this story and help me tell it to the world. I want to assure you that you will be handsomely rewarded”

I considered what he said silently, especially as he mentioned the word serendipity which I also subscribe to. “What is this story all about?” I finally asked him impatient to quench my long held curiosity.

“The story is all about me. How I died and watched things ‘under the eyes of a dead man’.” He slowly replied with his grin.

I listened to this rich looking and intelligent speaking man as he explained himself to me. The more he verbalized, the more I wanted to listen to him. Here is the spectacular story of Chief Douglas Odunga, one of the richest oil tycoons in Nigeria; a man who knows what it is like to watch things unfold as a dead man.
The reader might be surprise to know that this suspense filled and humorous story was related to me in four weeks as we sat side by side in our cherish and isolated world by the riverside. That unforgettable natural environment where the birds flutter freely, the fishes voyage across the river graciously and the sun rises and set peacefully under our eyes as we chatted freely; the storyteller tells the story, while the writer pen freely away, recording one of the most breath taking stories I have ever written. This is what he told me…
Enjoy.
Dodo

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