The shopkeeper who was universally loved and deserved better

Akram Hussein, who died suddenly after chasing a shoplifter at Centra on the Lower Drumcondra Road, Dublin. Picture: Gareth Chaney/Collins

It was a normal Saturday morning, or as normal as you can get in the time of Covid-19. I left the house to get a treat for the family for breakfast, and on the way I stopped at our local Centra in Drumcondra to get some stuff for dinner. It was 8.30 in the morning.

I walked inside, sanitised my hands, paused, and looked left to the post office section. There was something going on there, a couple of people standing, one kneeling, one on the ground. Then the slow dawn of realisation. “Oh Jesus, it’s Akram.”

If you’re not an emergency worker, witnessing someone receiving CPR is a slightly unreal experience. It was my first time. My own father died last year. He had gotten weaker and weaker and finally his body couldn’t hold out any longer. 

Full of life

This was different, this was a man I was used to being as full of life as any I could think of. I recognised what was going on, the person giving the pulmonary massage (who happened to be a surgeon) clearly knew what they were doing. 

After a moment he felt for a pulse and said, almost jovially, “there we go, we’ve got something now”. What was going on was clearly incredibly serious. But my mind couldn’t accept it as so. Akram looked peaceful.

Flowers and messages for Akram Hussein, who was much loved by locals in Drumcondra

Three gardaí, two firefighters, and two more wearing PPE, presumably paramedics, arrived in the shop. I didn’t know where to look. Elsewhere, the shop continued oblivious. An old lady touched my elbow, and asked me to grab a box of chocolates from the top shelf. “Better make it two.”

The gardaí wanted to seal the shop. As I left I asked how he was. “We don’t know yet.”

An hour later I returned for an update. The shop was still open, which gave me hope. “How is Akram?” I asked at the till. “He is no more,” came the reply from the same man at the counter who had been in the shop earlier (it can not be overstated – he wasn’t being glib, English isn’t his first language). I didn’t know what to think. I started to cry.

I must have known Akram for seven years, though I never knew his second name, which was Hussein. The shop had always been a happy one, with familiar faces on duty at what seemed to be all times. 

Over time and hundreds of visits I became aware of a fixture – a little, jolly, balding man, who spoke warmly to everyone. I think most assumed he owned the shop.

Ciaran Tully from Drumcondra signs a book of condolence for Akram Hussein. Picture: Gareth Chaney/Collins

As it happens, despite being a journalist, small talk is not something for which I have any aptitude. That didn’t matter with Akram, he was so warm and empathetic that he knew when to talk to you, and when you didn’t want to. When you talked he was just lovely. He knew your name, he knew what you did. Most of all he knew your family.

The world is unequal.

It turns out Akram, who was Bangladeshi, was the main breadwinner for his own family some 6,000 miles away. He had a wife and son, now 16, who he hadn’t seen since he was one. 

Maybe that was why he was so, so good to children. He would see our daughter and his face would light up. “Hello my darling,” he invariably said before passing a treat into her hand. “They are our future you know.” 

She is too young, she won’t remember him. I will never forget how good he was to her. After he died, it became clear he was equally generous to every little person who crossed his threshold, and also to the elderly. 

I am not sure there are many people in this world who can lay claim to being universally loved. The reaction since his death in the locality has shown that Akram could.

Reminiscences

Gentleman, dote, ray of sunshine. Across social media, all the reminiscences have been of a similar hue. The shop’s owner made clear that repatriating Akram’s body is the next step, donations can wait. But the locals want to do a fundraiser, and they will. As of this morning, a book of condolence bulges at a small shrine in the shop.

He was only 42, and a heavy smoker. He took ill after chasing a shoplifter that morning. He deserved better. RIP my good friend, heaven will be richer for your presence. And Drumcondra won’t be the same without you.