[SHORT STORY] 8 years ago yesterday, Colonel Gaddafi was killed. I met him two years before he was killed. The sad images of his gruesome end always remind me of an interesting and complicated soul sitting two meters away from me and talking for hours. Here is the story. 1/ 
It was 2009, and I was working for JK. He was AU Chair then and, in Jan., we were heading to Davos for WEF. We got a call from Gaddafi, who was to take over the AU Chair that month, that he wanted to consult before the Summit. So, on our way to Davos, we passed through Tripoli 2/
We landed in Tripoli at 8pm. The plan was to see Gaddafi and depart next morning.Upon landing, we received his request to see us that same evening (Arab leaders typically work at night). So we went to see him at one of his opulent houses. I attended the meeting as a note-taker 3/
We met in a big room with lavish Arab decor. Gaddafi did most of the talking, mostly about upcoming AU Summit, where he was to take over from JK as Chair. He wanted JK to support the idea of immediately announcing the United States of Africa and formation of African government 4/
He listed about 50 new Ministers of United States of Africa (the list consisted of fellow African Presidents). I frantically tried to catch up with the listing as he read it out to JK:- President of Mali - Minister of Culture; Joseph Kabila - Minister of Forestry, and so on 5/
JK, a skillful diplomat, patiently listened to all this. I was blown away by the strength of Gaddafi’s belief in the US of Africa and also his obliviousness of difficulties in doing it in one quick sweep. At one point I stopped taking notes and just looked at him as he spoke 6/
After the meeting, which lasted until after midnight, Gaddafi offered JK his palace to stay as, he said, “a show respect”. But we had already checked in (and had set up all the necessary support) at another place and it would prove very inconvenient if we accepted the offer 7/
Next morning, as we prepared for departure, Gaddafi asked to see us again - at his other residence, the one which was bombed by the Americans in 1980s. He had pitched a Bedouin tent out in the yard. The rubble from the bombardment has been left as kind of a “grievance” museum 8/
So we had a meeting – to carry on with the night's chat – at the tent. Tea was served. He suggested we stay for lunch. He said he had slaughtered a camel. We had to leave. The sad images of his gruesome end always remind me of an interesting soul sitting 2 meters away from me 9/9
