The remains of Sesan Ogunro, my friend and brother, was laid to rest last Friday. He would have been 62 on May 1. It is ironic that a man who took such a good care of his body— he neither drank nor smoked, took living bitters periodically to detox, exercised almost everyday, and took his medical check ups seriously— never lived to celebrate his 62nd birthday. That is a reflection of the short and brutish life in Nigeria.

Of the many thoughts which crowded my mind at the time of his death, a note he once left for me, kept recurring.

‘So sorry to hear about what happened to you. Please keep in touch. Old friends are difficult to grow’. This was a note he left me on hearing of one of my encounters with robbers about 2O years ago. I recollect this note now out of the many that passed between us in the course of time, for three reasons.

First; is to demonstrate his use of words. He was a wordsmith who liked to play with words. Second; is the adjective ‘old’. If I was an old friend 2O years ago, what does that make me today? Yes, like an old, well worn pair of shoes, we had gotten so comfortable with each other that there were no more surprises between us. Third reason was his own fatal encounter with the men of the underworld— not his first, not even his second, but as destiny would have it, his final encounter.

The news of his death was broken to me in the wee hours of Monday morning by Kehinde Phillips his neighbour, jogging partner and close friend. I immediately became listless and uncoordinated with flashes of him crowding my every thought. When I realised I couldn’t concentrate on any thing tangible, I went to church and prayed for release.

Immediately I left the church and switched on my phone, it started ringing virtually of the hook. Friends who knew how close we were, phoned to confirm not only if it happened, but how it happened. Stories were going round on he struggled with the robbers. But that was so out of character with the Sesan I knew.

He was not only averse to physical confrontation, he would not fight over material things. I have seen him walk away many times from failed partnerships and business deals where he had been short changed, only to start all over again.

This was also not the first time he would be accosted by armed robbers and he never struggled with them. In any case, no man should have to willingly give up what he worked hard for without a fight. Just as no man deserved to be killed in front of his wife, children and grandchildren.

Many people paid tributes to Sesan’s prodigious talents and he got many deserving tributes from his colleagues in the profession. But I still think his talents were understated as people like Biodun Shobanjo, Jimi Awosika, Bola Thomas and Femi Shofu who had worked closely with him would attest to.

Such was his talent that he would have been celebrated anywhere in the world. I believed so much in him that I never hesitated to introduce him to prospective clients.

An example was in 1984 when Vanguard was being planned. Uncle Sam Amuka had his mind set on three young advertising agencies for the launch and was very sceptical when I told him about Sesan Ogunro.

‘You mean that young man who comes with you to squash and likes to joke around?’ he asked. I managed to convince Uncle Sam to at least invite him for presentation. The rest is history as he beat the others hands down.

But also instructive was Sesan’s ability to make friends out of his clients. I was in Sesan’s house when Uncle Sam called me on that fateful Monday to discuss some things. But my mind was not there. In the end, I had to say ‘Uncle Sam, Sesan is dead.’ Which Sesan; you mean our own Sesan?’ was his reply.

He not only visited Dupe, he attended both the funeral service and the reception. And many of the ‘eminent men and women’— including state Governors— who attended the functions, fell into that category of clients who became friends.

Sesan was not perfect. None of us is. He was deep and tended to compartmentalise his life. He was gregarious, yet private. He made friends easily yet had very few close friends. He was outgoing, yet loved the indoor life, especially when watching sports— tennis, boxing and football on DSTV.

He had his comfort zone which he would not willingly step out of. But he was a good man with a good heart. I pray all those he wronged in his life time would forgive him just as he was said to have forgiven his assailants in his dying moments.

Kehinde Phillips asked me to write about closure. But how can I when like the Dionne Warwick song, ‘there is always something there to remind me’. The towel I was using the week he died had ‘Eminent’ printed on it. Should I throw it away? The Rado wristwatch I wore to his funeral service was given to me by Sesan.

Should I throw it away? My drawer is full of faded and fading pictures of our days together. Should I tear them up? And what should I do to the notes and jokes written in his unmistakable hand writing in my office?

They say the things you find out about a man that he did not tell you show the kind of person he is. If so, the calibre of people— from governors to commoners— that attended the funeral rites and the tributes they paid, showed that Sesan was indeed, a great man. I am proud to have had him as a friend. Take your rest now mate. The race is over.