He was the stereotype of the upper class English gentleman living in the tropical jungle. He wore Saville row suits , hand made shoes, and monogrammed shirts and handkerchiefs, all impeccably maintained by his well trained local butler.
His 50s model vintage Mercedes still had its original upholstery and engine almost 30 years later, maintained by an equally well trained local chauffeur. He never had a driver, he had a chauffeur because they did chauffeur duties even though everyone called them ‘Driver’ anyway.
He wore silk pygama’s and a silk night gown when everyone around him tied a wrapper at bedtime. He ate bacon and eggs for breakfast, corned beef sandwiches for lunch and pounded yam with egusi and chicken soup for dinner. He drank a carton a carton of Star beer each day.
He had a temper. When goats strayed into his unwalled garden in the village he shot them and left the carcass for vultures. He wouldn’t even allow the owner to retrieve the body to eat or to sell in the market, and he certainly wouldn’t eat it himself either.
It was the height of disregard and cold ruthlessness in a place where poverty was rife but the only way to to enforce compliance. If he ate the goat they would accuse him of shooting it out of greed, if he let them eat it the punishment would not be as sufficient felt, they did not rue the killing as much as the wastage.
His nieghbours kept their goats tethered while less ruthless men squabbled daily over damaged crops or the motive for killing a trespassing goat. He shot his son once too, for disrespectfully challenging his older brother. Told him he had other sons, so there. Luckily the shot didn’t kill him. Yeah, that’s the kind of man he was.
A conversation with him was not possible. Being he was the first one in the village to go over the seas to England back in the day, the first to marry an educated woman and the first to become a minister, he felt very special and lots of people thought he was something special though not every body agreed but that’s life. Can’t please all the people all the time.
He had to be right all the time and he rewarded loyalty generously. Those that agreed with him could join the queue of people waiting outside his village bungalow for handouts the day he returned to his city home. He would hand out brand new notes to everyone near the car as he was about to leave.
He was a real character; frequently drunk, frequently quarrelsome and frequently disagreeable. He stayed home most of the day going out for the occasional meeting with some functionary who was in a position to do him a favor. he survived like that till he died at the grand old age of 87 or there about. No one is really quite sure. No one recorded the day he was born.