Have you ever read a book or an article or listened to a speech or a religious sermon or watched a television documentary that changed your life? One that revolutionized your thinking and changed how you live your life? I have indeed watched documentaries, read books, listened to thought-revoking speeches. Many of them. But one experience that has stuck with me and stands out most in my mind is a speech that I listened to at a funeral of a friend a few weeks ago. In my small village. Of course, the speech was neither directed at me, as an individual, nor at the other mourners. It was, in fact, delivered as a eulogy. The message touched my intellectual and spiritual wiring, revolutionized my perception of life, and inspired me to reform. Sine dubio, it will do likewise to you. I must confess, the message made me a better person. The message catapulted me into a new direction of life. Thanks to the speaker who delivered the thought-provoking message at a funeral of a friend, Ludovik Igunza.
Everyone knew him as a low-speed driver. What exactly prompted him to drive at that high speed on that fateful day remains a mystery. What his team and all of us knew was that he was scheduled for a meeting in Bagamoyo. Sixty-eight kilometers north of his base, Masaki. He was traveling in his new elegant dark grey Range Rover, along new Bagamoyo road, at 160 kilometers per hour when it happened. Something along the road caught his eye. Maybe the children who were cheering their friends in what looked like an interschool sports gala. When he looked back in the direction in which he was traveling, it was too late. A fuel tanker had broken down, stranded, and left packed in the middle of the road. No warning at all. At a corner. Near Bunju trading center. He veered the Range Rover to the far right. There was another car coming from the opposite direction at high speed. To avoid head-on collision, he swerved at supersonic speed back into his lane. In agonizing motion, he found himself driving at 160 km/h right into the stationary fuel tanker. Crash. The sound of the crash was so loud that it caught attention of nearby villagers. Fuel spilled out of the tank and ignited. In a space of forty minutes, the tanker and the new Range Rover were reduced into a thick blaze of raging flames and a ball of dark smoke.
He was rescued from the inferno but went into a co/ma. He could not respond to sound nor light. His next conscious moment was four months later. On a bed at Kawe Hospital. Ninety five percent of his body was smeared with layers upon layers of bandages and white linen gauze. He couldn’t move his limbs, not even by an inch. Fed through tubes, his once sparkling eyes remained closed and swollen. Every breath that he took was weak and labored. Each breath taking longer than the last. He had third degree burns. He remained admitted in intensive care at Kawe hospital enduring the pain until the time he breathed his last.
There was no way I was going to miss his funeral. Igunza was my best friend. We did not only go to the same high school, but we were roommates. We also came from the same village. We grew up together. Although we had not seen each other for four years, due to the demands of our callings, we still corresponded through email, Instagram, WhatsApp and phone calls. After all, we were living in different countries.
I travelled to the village. I was on time for the funeral ceremony. After all protocols had been observed, it was time for eulogies. I saw the director of ceremonies beckoning the first speaker to the microphone. A man who I guess was in his late seventies, ladened by thick wrinkles on his forehead, revealing his age, with the help of a wooden walking stick whose handle looked rubbed and polished by sweat of his palm, stood up. With difficulties, supported by his walking stick, he limped to the microphone, gave it a soft tap - to ensure that it was working - cleared his throat and began to deliver his eulogy.
Considering my friend’s high-status, I knew what the speaker would focus on - the ‘toys’ that Igunza had collected and left behind. I was mistaken. Grossly mistaken. Embarrassingly so. There was no mention of the posh Range Rover that Igunza was driving at the time of accident and other luxurious cars that graced the driveway of his elegant penthouse in Masaki; not even a word about the regular trips that he used to take for holiday outside the country. The speaker did not deliver the eulogy as expected by many mourners. I should think the bereaved, too, were surprised. No reference to the elite high school and prestigious colleges that Igunza attended. No reference to the lofty academic and professional qualifications that my friend possessed; I tell you there was no mention of the expensive suits and jewelry that my friend used to put on; not even a single word about the position that he held at his workplace; the number of businesses that he established, owned, and ran. I do not know what was wrong with the speaker – he did not make any comment about the banks that Ludovik frequented, banked with and the ‘many’ accounts that he held with them. No word from the speaker about the stocks that Ludovik acquired and owned through his stockbrokers. At some point, I wanted to stand up and shake the speaker a bit. I simply did not want him to forget to talk about it – yes, that my departed friend was landlord of some of the multistoried buildings and towers that scraped the skies of the major cities in our region; that he bought, developed, and owned a secluded island on Lake Niassa, which he used to visit in his private chopper. Dear reader, what I am presenting to you is that the speaker gave mourners a blackout vis-à-vis materialistic possessions that my pal had left behind.
Speaking with tearful but measured voice, the speaker’s message was clear and fathomed: he painted a different picture. Different from what mourners were expecting. A sanguine picture about who Igunza was and his beliefs – as a human being and about being humane. He talked positively about Ludovik’s love for his family; the retinue of friends that he built; contributions that he made to community; people that he assisted. In short, the message dwelt on Ludovik’s service to humanity. It was revealed to the mourners that Ludovik was a type of person who made the life of another man worth living. He made sure that he left smiling every person who crossed his path.
It is after this part of the eulogy that I felt my heart pounding like a ten-pound hammer. My mind darting like a ping pong ball. My body perspired heavily as if I was exposed to monsoon heatwave. I needed to pick a lesson here, I told myself. A vital lesson – ‘Leadership is not about title nor status nor possessions nor having the loudest voice in the room nor having the biggest corner office. Leadership has nothing to do with the designation on one’s business card. Nothing to do with one’s collection of toys.’ The old man left it bare, uncovered, for mourners to take the message home that leadership is not a self-serving venture. Leadership is a way of operation. Leadership is all about asking and answering one single question, and one only: ‘how do I make the life of people, whose paths cross my path, better than I found them?’
As if this was not enough, I heard the speaker clearing his throat, encore, an indication that he had not finished delivering his eulogy. He continued with his speech, stealing hard gazes at the mourners, who were sitting in front of him. “When are you going to die?” He paused as if waiting for someone to respond. “Last time I asked this question, no one answered me. Today, too, looking at your faces, no one is courageous enough to answer me.” He paused to adjust grip of the walking stick which he was using to support his frail body. “Igunza did not know that he was going to die the day he died. You and I did not know about it, either. I often wonder when I listen to the news on the radio about someone’s death and ask myself: did the person who died remember to tell his family how much he loved them? Did he ever had time to thank their significant others, bosses, subordinates for the support rendered? Did he ever remember to apologize to the people he offended or indeed someone whose feelings were hurt? I doubt it. Because none of us has an idea about how long we have to live. We act as if we are going to live forever. We postpone acting on the things that matter in our lives like – telling the people we love how much we care, becoming a better listener, offering support to the less privileged, taking care of the environment and leaving it better than we found it.”
He took a pause. A long pause. He fished out a nicely ironed white handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers, wiped some globules of sweat that had collected in the lines of his wrinkles and continued to speak; “how many of us are pleased with our lives? Universally, when people look back at their lives, while laying on their deathbed, they wish they had lived their lives differently. They wish they had spent more time with their loved ones. They wish they had taken more risks. They wish they had travelled the world and eaten more ice-cream. They wish they had made more contributions to their communities through charity works.”
He continued, “When you are gone, dear friend, the only thing that you will leave behind for posterity is your work, not materialistic possessions that you had collected during your lifetime. Your work will bear testament of who you were. By work, I am not talking about your occupation, but the value you contribute to the world using the resources that you are blessed with.” He paused to regain breath, stroke his unkempt grey hair with his right hand and continued.
“In her book, I Know Why Caged Birds Sing, renowned poet, Maya Angelou, sagely asserted, “to whom much is given, much is expected.” You and I are witnesses. Today. Ludovik was given much, and he gave back much . . . My wish for you, fellow mourners, is found in the wise words of Erma Bombeck, who discerningly counseled, “when you stand before God at the end of your life, you would hope that you would not have a single bit of talent left, and you could confidently say, - I used everything you gave me.” He paused and asked a scathing rhetoric question, “if you die tomorrow, what books, ideas, songs, talents, un-utilized blessings will die with you? When you help others to find happiness, the world will connive in return to give you boundless happiness. Give yourself to the world and the world will not only be healed but become a better place to live in.” With this statement, the old man handed the microphone back to the director of ceremonies, took a solemn bow and sat down, leaving mourners, not only thinking about Igunza but their own mortality too.
Let the truth be told, the old man’s message touched my spiritual disposition. Transitorily, I went into reflective mode - thinking about my own mortality. I made a vow with myself that day to start attending my own funeral. I deconstructed that imagining yourself at your own funeral allows you to look back at your life while you still have the chance to make some important changes. Doing so will not only remind you of the kind of person you want to be but brings some sense of significance in your life too. That you mattered. That you did not walk the world in vain.
As I drove back home in Masaki, the words of the old man kept ringing in my head, ‘. . . leadership is about answering the question - how do I make the life of people whose paths cross my path better than I found them? . . . leadership is not a self-serving venture . . . . leadership is a way of operation. … when I am gone my work will bear testament of who I was. . . . to whom much is given much is expected.’
At this moment, I became charged. Emotionally charged. As I continued driving back home, I remembered the lyrics of Gramps Morgan’ song, People Like You. I connected my phone to the vehicle’s music system and played the song, concentrating not only on the connotation of the lyrics but the message:
‘If you give a little more than you take
And if you fix more than you break
If you’re the kind of person who takes the time
To help a stranger in the rain
There is a place for people like you.
If you stand up for those down on their knees
And lend a voice to those who cannot speak
If you shine a little light and give sight
To the ones who’ve lost their way
There is a place for people like you.
I’ve heard up there the streets are made of gold
And when you get there, there’s a hand to hold
I believe when your days down here are through
There’s a place up there for you.
If you walk around with your heart on your sleeve
And if you try to be the change you want to see
If you lay down your life for love
So someone could be saved
There’s a place for people like you.
I know you’re out there
So keep doing what you do
Cause there’s a place up there for people like you.’
Momentarily, I hit the repeat button of the music system on the dashboard. I found myself singing along, celebrating the legacy and greatness of my kid friend, Igunza.
Lester Chinyang’anya ǀ General Manager - Operations ǀ Minet Malawi
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