Ties that bind: my friend Akio
In the mid-1990s, my life was a blur of international flights, business meetings, and the constant hum of opportunity. As an established trade expert in Japan, I was juggling a dozen engagements when the president of Dun & Bradstreet called. Would I continue my assignments with McKinsey and Anheuser-Busch? I agreed, more out of habit than calculation.
Japan, with its blend of ancient tradition and modern ambition, became my second home. I was introduced to a steady stream of entrepreneurs, and I quickly realized that the challenges they faced weren’t so different from those of my American clients. Business, I learned, is a universal language—only the etiquette varies.
It was during this time that I met Akio Maeda, a man who would become my confidant and lifelong friend. Maeda-san was one of eight children, born during the chaos of World War II. His family, descended from samurai sword makers, lived in Shizuoka—the land of Japan’s finest tea and the ever-watchful Mount Fuji.
His father, wary of the war’s reach, had the children bury their ancestral swords beneath the house, keeping them from being melted down for armaments. That quiet act of defiance spoke volumes about his family’s spirit.
Maeda-san’s eldest brother was a national treasure in woodblock print art—a living legend. He once gifted me pieces from his personal collection, saying, “You are genuine. My brother chose the right partner.” In Japan, that’s as close to a bear hug as you get.
Maeda-san hired me to find a specialty chemical supplier for his non-slip and restaurant degreaser business. After a few whirlwind trips to Atlanta, we found the right partner and cut his costs by 90%. In gratitude, he gave me rent-free office space for years, convinced that keeping me close would lead to more opportunities. He was right. We worked together until he passed during Covid.
In 1994, I took Maeda-san to Miami. We went fishing at dawn, where he was mistaken for Cuban by local fishermen—a confusion resolved only when he offered his Japanese Mild Seven cigarettes. He made a few friends before seasickness claimed him. Later, despite my concerns, we played golf under the Florida sun, and he enjoyed every moment.
That night, we attended the final regular season Miami Heat game. Maeda-san, exhausted, fell asleep just as the fan raffle was called. Naturally, he won the grand prize—a cruise to the Bahamas. The spotlight found him napping. I woke him to collect his prize, still half in a dream.
Our friendship was defined by small, meaningful moments. When someone sneezed, I’d say, “Bless you.” Maeda-san and his staff found it odd, then charming. Soon, “Bless you, thank you,” became their greeting—a tiny bridge between cultures.
Looking back, I realize how blessed we both were, not just in business, but in the rare gift of true friendship. Gomeifuku o oinorishimasu (“御冥福 お お祈りします”) May your memory be a blessing. Rest in peace, my friend.