By Damola Kola-Dare

“Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.”

–Anonymous

That day was horrifying; it descended from Stygian darkness – Tuesday, July 7, 2020.

To paraphrase Pablo Neruda, not only my night was shattered; my world was shattered and the blue stars shivered. A mighty Iroko had fallen and other trees in the forest sobbed in grief.  I had hardly spent ten minutes in the Matori  newsroom  of The Nation when I received a call that coloured my mood: my father, Omololu Kola-Dare (The Great Mexico Ray) had passed on.

I was thunderstruck. I couldn’t move the mouse I held. Beads of sweat cascaded my temples. He was not ill. At 69, he was ever sprightly. Hale and hearty. His guttural laughter could wake the dead. What could have happened? Different thoughts canvassed for attention in my mind. I was puzzled.

It felt like a dream. It was beyond tears for me. I summoned courage to send a mail to Prof Olatunji Dare (His elder brother), who was stunned himself. Even when I rang him, I noticed he was shell-shocked. He had to hang up because he wanted the reality to sink: his younger brother had transited to the ether of the great beyond.

Time mows with a vicious scythe. Just like yesterday, it is already a year since he died. The first anniversary of his demise was on Wednesday July 7.

Memories remain fresh of our friendship, of the great time we had during his sojourn on this plane. However, this space will be inadequate for everything. I will have to write a big book.

A fantastic personality with a bonhomie spirit, he was too humble. He smiled and joked with everyone. He radiated infectious warmth. He was not a moneybag, yet he touched lives with his generosity.

He had a stentorian voice that could  instil fear into the toughest of men, yet he was no ironclad dictator. His friends and colleagues described him as the man with a ‘military handshake’ because his handshake comes with verve, vim and vigour.

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If he hadn’t been a journalist, he would have been a hugely successful footballer. Such was his talent! He dazzled peers and friends as a defender in his halcyon days in secondary school and Bacita Sugar Company in Kwara State. He played like a libero on the pitch which would have made ex-Manchester United defender, Nemanja Vidic or even ex-Real Madrid defender, Sergio Ramos envious.

A lover of boxing, he could recall with stunning accuracy the exploits of Nigerian boxers and the legendary Muhammed Ali. He regaled me with tales of Ali’s 1974 triumph over George Foreman in Zaire, tagged: ‘Rumble in the Jungle’, where spectators chorused: “Ali, bomaye!” (Ali, kill him).

A journalist who knew his onions, Kola-Dare would never compromise standards. Painstaking, thorough, brilliant and highly cerebral, he radiated a self-confidence that could be mistaken for arrogance. He wanted the best for us his children and he gave us the best. In my childhood days, he taught me bravery and instilled a never-say-die spirit in me. He would tell me to stand tall and strong in the face of the stiffest odds. With monastic dedication, he taught me the basics of journalism and gave me invaluable books to develop myself. He made sure I read the late Bayo Oguntuashe’s ‘Mind Your Grammar’ column then in Daily Sun to be abreast of modern trends in English usage.  He believed so much in me and nurtured my writing talent. On regular occasions, he would give me editing tasks to test my ability and I wondered why he did that. I didn’t believe I would find myself in journalism. We were extremely close. We were like Siamese twins. He treated me like a younger brother. Such was our closeness.

On the home front, he never shirked his responsibilities. His love and loyalty were ineffable. He was an inspiring leader, forthright husband, ever-caring father and custodian like no other. Still fresh in my memory are our fun-catching expeditions and his throaty laughter.

When death came calling, I wish I was with him. I wish I could pay the Grim Reaper. I wish I could delay that hour. I wish I could tell time to stand still. I wish he were here to tell me more about his journalistic triumphs and travails, how he survived the closure of Concord during the days of the dark-goggled dictator. I wish he were alive when I welcomed my son, Korede (his grandson).

But alas, the curtains fell! Sunset before sunset. Terminat hora diem, terminat auto opus. And now my mother, I and the rest of the family must “learn to dance with the limp,” to paraphrase American novelist, Anne Lammot.

As his winter years drew nigh, he told me of plans to write his memoir. But it was not to be. Death came calling without the slightest of hints. I hope I will be able to carry out the task and a posthumous memoir for a most cherished father who gave me the moniker, “Boy Damo.”

It was Maya Angelou who said in one of her poems: “A great soul serves everyone all the time. A great soul never dies. It brings us together again and again.” And that is the consolation I have…my hero lives on. Though my dad and superhero, Omololu Kola-Dare, is gone to his eternal bed, the debt I owe him is to continue in the legacies he left behind.

Sic transit gloria mundi; rest on till we meet at the feet of our creator.

•Kola-Dare is a Lagos-based journalist. His late father, Omololu Kola-Dare, who passed on in July 2020, was deputy production editor with Saturday Sun.