In the nadir of winter on Saturday, November 23, 1985, I arrived in Stockholm to investigate the neglect of African writers in the award of the Nobel Prize in Literature since its inception. I knew nobody in that sub-Arctic inclement part of our planet.
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Indeed colleagues on the Paris-based Journalistes- en-Europe staigiaire class had been doing their best trying to dissuade a Johnny-come-lately to the cold climates from embarking on what they, on just account, considered a hazardous undertaking. But it was, for me, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, not to be missed.
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When I heard the news about Achebe's death, I thought of that journey. I remembered some of my experiences then only faintly but there are some highlights of it that stand out as if only yesterday.
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The first task was to look for a place to pass the night. My main tasks would begin on Monday. By sheer serendipity I came upon a visiting Chinese called Luu who had stayed a longer period and seemed to know a thing or two about the city. And who, more importantly, was so friendly. Luu was staying in a cheap youth hostel and was willing to take me along to the place.
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The Swedes had converted a decommissioned ship into a youth hostel, naming it Af Chapman and stationing her on the banks of the lake. It was the cheapest place my shoe-string budget could accommodate. I arrived Af Chapman too thoroughly tired from the hassles of the day to notice that I had myself become something of a spectacle.
The man would never be forgotten in Nigeria in many years to come. His legacy lives on even when he is dead.