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clevon_raphael@hotmail.com
Last
time Ispoke to Dr Ali
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He told me he was deeply worried
about what was taking place in the country.
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He was a no-nonsense presiding officer of the Senate.
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Did he have a premonition about his last days on Earth.
Last
week I promised to deal today with the warning by Khafra
Kambon to call for a boycott by Afro-Trinis of businesses
which refuse to financially assist the endeavours of the
Emancipation Support Committee.
Unfortunately, I have to shift gear to reminisce on the
passing of a quintessential Trinidadian, Dr Wahid Ali, and
once more bring into focus this ultimate road of life which
all must travel sooner or later (death).
Although it is all around us and we cannot run or hide from
it, this final journey is a compulsory trip we are yet to
understand and accept. It is the only condition we are guaranteed
in life.
One of the things that fascinates me with this state is
if we would do things differently if we knew the precise
time when our number is to be called?
Would we make peace with those who we may not be on good
terms with? The wife, children, neighbour?
Sadly, Dr Ali’s transition last weekend brings this
question to mind as this gentleman, whom I had the greatest
respect and admiration for, telephoned me—quite unexpectedly—11
days ago.
Like his prior calls, he introduced himself—his calls
were so infrequent but always warm—as a long lost friend,
waiting to hear if I would recognise his voice.
When I did recognise it we had a long laugh and I said,
“Chief, anytime you call I have to stand at attention.
To what do I owe this call?”
He made a self-deprecating comment to the effect that he
was an old man, that he was no longer of news value and
if I still wanted to continue our telephone chat.
We both laughed out aloud at this obvious light-hearted
remark.
He said he was deeply worried about what was taking place
in the country, particularly in the Parliament and asked
if I had seen his interview on television some days before
where he discussed that issue.
His parting shot was that he would have been out of contact
for the next seven days and that if I felt he was important
enough, I could call him after that period for any comment
on the nation’s affairs.
He repeated his concerns about the conduct of parliamentary
business and we ended our chat in the customary manner—loud
laughter.
My conversation with Dr Ali was immediately recalled on
Saturday morning while my wife and I were driving around
checking hardware stores for building materials.
She was reading the Guardian when she blurted out, “Clevon,
Dr Ali has died.”
“What!
That can’t be true,” I said.
She recalled Dr Ali calling our home and giving him my cell
phone number.
The chilling part of his passing was when I recalled him
saying during what turned out to be our last conversation:
“Clevon,
you know I am leaving just now so I want to say some things
which may not be useful but I want to say them...”
I laughed and replied:
“No
sir, I know we old men are in the departure lounge but you
still have a lot of life in you. And nothing you say is
unimportant. You are not going any anywhere anytime soon.”
Perhaps he had some kind of premonition about his last days
on mother Earth.
I got to know Dr Ali after I joined the Guardian in 1970,
and he became President of the Senate in 1971.
A no-nonsense presiding officer, I repeatedly witnessed
him fearlessly pulling up government, opposition and independent
members alike.
I used to be on my best behaviour at the press table because
of his strict conduct of the business of the Upper House.
But when you met him outside the chamber, more so at his
home, he would kill you with his very witty remarks, which
served to put one at ease. But Dr Ali would easily slip
into the serious mode to express his hurt and despair over
social conditions in the country.
Although he never came across publicly as a supporter of
the People’s National Movement, he was nevertheless
reluctant to openly criticise the party or its successive
administrations.
But he spoke in a coded manner which left no doubt that
he was deeply concerned too about the less fortunate in
the society. That was the theme on the rare occasions that
he publicly spoke since he demitted public life in 1986.
I had often told him that people like him, even though they
had retired, still ought to raise their voices against what
they perceived to be the ills of the society.
Did he finally decide to speak out just before he went to
meet his creator? We would never know, which brings me back
to my original question.
Would he have done so much earlier if he knew he was about
to make his final transition?
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