17.2 C
Friday, April 19, 2024

How Kenyans are making money online from Aviator

Ever tried out PakaKumi or JetX before? Well, think of Aviator as its cousin. Here's how it works; while playing Aviator, you are placing...
HomeceosBob Collymore Talks About Death, Divorce And His Stay In Hospital

Bob Collymore Talks About Death, Divorce And His Stay In Hospital

This was Bob Collymore most comprehensive interview he granted the media before his unexpected death. The Safaricom CEO showed strength of mind even in his lowest moment.

Bob Collymore: Life lessons from my hospital bed
By Jackson Biko courtesy of Nation

He does nothing the whole day but read from his Kindle and think. When he leaves this sanitised room it’s only through his mind and imagination.

He thinks of death but doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn’t give it much megabytes, or MBs – as the more bohemian crowd refer to attention. Lying there, he thinks of his son who he wants “happiness” for.

He thinks of his daughter, Serah, only 10 years old and who he calls his pumpkin. He thinks of his wife, Wambui, who is seated in the hallway wrapped in a broth of her own thoughts, being strong for both of them.

He doesn’t cry, Bob, because he already cried when he learnt he had cancer. Now nothing else matters. He waits and he fights.

He fights for Wambui and for his children and for the legion of Kenyans who have been praying for his recovery. To mean now he just has to be Bob.

Also Read: Bob Collymore Salary and net worth

Bob who flies choppers, collects arts, loves books, blows his saxophone, wears his happy socks, fears cats and steers, as captain, Safaricom, the most profitable company that announced a staggering Sh55.2 billion net profit when he was under a fog of nauseating chemotherapy.


Then Bob beats it. He beats the cancer. Then he flies home having lost all the immunity he had built over 60-years of his life.

You could stretch it and say he’s reborn. “The fear of death is not something I spent time worrying,” he tells Jackson Biko in his home in Kitusuru, seated under one of the many paintings dotting his lavish home.

“Now I know it’s kind of impossible for somebody to live for 200 years.”

His wife, Wambui, sits close to him, smiling at him tenderly and looking at him with a softness of powder in the wind.

Having just turned 60 not too long ago, what was been your greatest revelation of the 50s?

I think I had a lot more self realisation in my 50s. In my 40s I was still hunting around. I left UK for Japan and then to South Africa where I started to gain a defined sense of purpose, began to understand there is privilege in working in an environment you can make a difference in.

The other significant thing that happened in my 50s is that I adopted my daughter — we have a 50-year difference between us. That was a great thing.

My 50s is also when I was diagnosed with cancer and to think of life and wonder if things will work out; will I get back to Nairobi or is this it; and when I look back at my life how do I feel about that.

I had a conversation with my daughter and she said, ‘daddy you’ll come back, you are a good man.’ I asked why and she said, “Because of what you do for girls, for children through Safaricom and what you do for the poor.”

For my 10-year-old daughter to say that, to say “you are a good man,” really mattered a lot to me. So I said if I don’t see 61, I’m good.

Has your purpose shifted, what’s your purpose in your 60s?

That’s a good question. I know purpose is to help as many people as I can to do the right thing. I have talked about cancer children at KNH on palliative care, children who know they will die and not dying in the best circumstances.

My question is; can I sway people or the government to do the right thing for them? Can I make business deals that will look at the climate change or impact it in a good way? Can I do more to encourage great transparency, reduce fraud and corruption?

Have you always been clear what you wanted? Was this ever part of the big idea?

I was always clear that I wanted a bigger car and a bigger house, like most people, really. [Laughs].

I wanted these things because they show status but at some point, I must have been 45-years, these things changed. I started asking what do I want to do and why?

I was in Japan then with my family and my son had just finished school and I thought, ‘what is important to me now?’ and at that time it was my son’s happiness. But was the car I was driving then, a Jaguar XKR Sports, going to guarantee his happiness?

I started to think about the society he was living in and the future he was going to occupy and my role in making it better. That was my turning point. Life was never going to be about the size of car I drove.

Did you ever cry when you were in hospital?

I think I did. Once or twice, in the early days. There was a period of uncertainty, when I didn’t know exactly if I had cancer or not but everything was indicative that perhaps I had it.

I came to that realisation in London at the hospital when it dawned on me that it was cancer. But I don’t think I cried because I thought I was going to die, I think I cried because I started to realise how much everybody else cared.

And I cried in response to the messages. It was a death moving messages, even the sea was moved. Everybody at Safaricom and just the general Kenyan public, strangers, acquaintances, friends, just wishing you well.

How can you tell which people align themselves to you because you are the CEO and those who genuinely connect with you because you are Bob?

It’s tough. I remember many years ago, Wambui asked me the same question. I said I don’t and that’s why I only have one friend, unfortunately that friend died. She said wow.

But over the eight years of being here, we’ve seen more and more people emerge as genuine friends or people who genuinely care. So I have a very small circle of good friends, and they come from different kind of backgrounds. It’s tough for people like me because we actually want people to care more.

So who now tells the emperor when he’s naked?

Wambui does. Also, him [points at Urbanus Musinga, his Executive Assistant]. He is likely to tell me when I’m doing stupid things…

What’s the most stupid thing you’ve done in nine years as CEO?

(Chuckles) Why are you asking this question? Because I have to go through so many things that I have done to pick the most stupid thing I’ve done.

They’re many. My mind is in paradise to think about it now. [Pause] I think some bad HR decisions — the firing was more about the timing rather than if I should have done it or not.

Then there are commercial decisions, we made some wrong calls. [Pause] We do stupid things everyday, I do stupid things every day.

Has this experience of battling cancer changed your perception of mortality?

[Pause] Death is inevitable and I have made the decision not to cling on the thought of it because it will eventually come; I just do not know when.

I have chosen to focus on the things that are more important to me. Now I know it’s kind of impossible for somebody to live for 200 years.

[Chuckles]. But something very important is that when you have cancer the idea of death is near, and so it doesn’t surprise unlike you who is healthy, but death could be coming in the next minute or tomorrow morning.

Has it changed how you do business?

To some extent it has. It has allowed me to let more people manage me. It’s made us focus on the things that are important because not everything is important, not all arguments are important.

You do not always have the last word on something and you do not always have to be the first person to say something. Just shut up and listen and do not have to always say anything. When you spend a lot of time on your own, you realise that silence actually is a pretty good thing.

Because music is a big thing in your life, if you’re to pick a song that captures the moment you were fighting cancer, what song would that be?

That’s a tough question. There’s a difference between me and my wife, she listens to the words, I listen to the music. So for me it’s a bit more abstract, it’s about the sound, not the words. So I don’t think I can pick a song that says, that’s where I was.

But during this time I did listen to a lot of “Grandma’s Hands,” by Gregory Porter and Ben LOncle. Grandma’s Hands actually is a nice song because it does take me back a lot because my grandmother had such a huge impact in my life. Probably the single most important person in my life.

You have been married once before…

Three times! [Laughter in the room] But divorced twice.
When you were in that room, alone, with your thoughts, did you discover anything about yourself?

Yes, actually I did. [Pause] I don’t know if I should say it…I should in the spirit of honesty. [Pause] I had hundreds and hundreds of well-wishers sending me messages to get well soon, some who are strangers, business rivals, acquaintances and all and I stopped and asked myself, “would I have done the same thing?” [Long pause] The answer is no. That realisation didn’t fill me with pride, knowing that I was not the nice person I thought I was.

Does it get easier – marriage – when you keep getting married?

I think it does get easier providing you’re mature enough to learn lessons from the last time round. If you’re not mature then you’ll keep repeating the same mistakes.

Do you think as you grow older you become a better husband?

I think you should become, I don’t think you always do. There are some old guys who don’t do anything constructive.

I don’t think it necessarily follows that age imposes your standing as a husband. There are some pretty stupid old husbands and some pretty stupid young husbands.

Because you have a blended family, how do you make sure that everybody else is getting along?

That’s a trickier question to answer because it is complex. There are lots and lots of people involved. So my side, I’m really lucky in the sense that my ex-wife has met a guy who is fantastic.

They’re getting married again next year. He’s a good man.

He would go to such extent just to make sure that I can see my daughter. When I was sick he would drive her and then leave her for the Saturday.