Walk Faster Than You Can Talk

3

The respect I had for Uncle Rich skyrocketed over the next week, as each evening, he brought a new chapter of knowledge to the table – the dining table. He was very well trained and schooled, but there were some incredible things he had taught himself that fascinated me, and I really wanted to be like him. He was an astute businessman, an admirable leader and a friendly father. His grit and discipline was what had made him as rich as he was. The rumours my mother told me about were lies, and I told her whenever she called. She would sound so worried I was being fed something spiritual and I would roll my eyes.

'The only thing I'm being fed here is wisdom, ma. Have you ever heard of skill and luxury in one place? No. It's usually skill and hard work – hard labour, ma. I'm like, really lucky to be here and you're telling me not to be talking with him?'

'You're getting too close, Nana Kwadwo. Please, I beg you...'

Knowing that arguing with her wasn't going to change her mind, and that this was Uncle Rich's phone and he would need it, I would assure her that I'd not even eat dinner with him again. She wouldn't believe me, but there was nothing she could do about it. So she'd hung up, hoping I'd do as she asked. But I didn't. This was golden. I wasn't going to throw it away over superstition. Good people could be filthy rich too, and I didn't see why Uncle Rich's riches were questionable.

'When I was a young boy,' Uncle Rich started over dinner one day, 'I used to stutter very horribly. My classmates would laugh at me, and I would cry so much, especially when I wanted to insult them for laughing, but even those words wouldn't come out. It was particularly funny to them that a 'Richman' like me, of all things I could do, stuttered. It was painful.'

He sipped some wine.

'Now you know your grandfather was learned, so he knew there was something he could do about it,' he continued, 'and so he did. He set time aside just to talk to me. When it was time for our talk, he wouldn't call me Kobby like everyone at home did, no. He would call me Richman, in a deep voice much like mine right now, and firmly so that he commanded strength and authority into the name he was mentioning,' he smiled, his eyes soft, and placed a forkful of jollof rice in his mouth. He munched quickly enough, and continued.

'It worked. I would walk up to him feeling like nothing less than his only son – and that was a strong feeling, because my father was a man of authority. He taught me to speak slowly, and not try to speak like everyone did. He also started to speak slowly, so I wasn't the only one who was different. He was a gem, my father.'

He took another sip.

'He also taught me something that has proven useful to me throughout my life. I would like to share that with you. It was during one of our talks that he said to me, 'Walk Faster than You Can Talk'.'

He paused and looked at my face, searching for understanding. When he saw none, he proceeded, 'At first I thought he meant that whenever they started to laugh, I should walk away, faster than the word that wasn't coming out could. That way I would have chosen to walk away from their mockery, and chosen not to insult them, as he said it wasn't a courteous thing to do, and therefore wasn't approved of. When I asked him if that was it, he said yes, and gave me a big fist bump and then he said that that wasn't all there was to it.'

I took a sip of wine.

'He said to me, "Find other meanings for this multifaceted advice I am giving you, Richman." I will give you an example, Kwadwo. I took 'walk' to mean 'progress' and talk to mean 'plan, or discuss with peers, or dream'. In essence, I must progress faster than I can discuss it. Does that mean to overwork myself? No, though I do,' he laughed, 'Does that mean to not talk to anyone at all? No. It means that the effort and time I take to discuss, even with myself and partners, should be far less than the effort and time I put into actually carrying them out. Thus, I must be better at working than talking; better at actually putting my hand to the plough than at dreaming. And when I do dream, my progress must be faster than my discussion.'