Dighabofigha Owei-Ilagha was a tall man with a freckled face. No, not freckles. More like pock marks from a pox disaster he had suffered in the past as a younger man. It was all over his face. He had the slow, deliberate walk of a giant, all of his frame practically vibrating with confidence as he took the next valiant step. He was a fisherman. His canoe was not big. He could sit in the middle, if he so desired, and swing the paddle any way he liked, left and right, and the vehicle would slide over the waters with all that fluid speed to his coconut farm at Okparantaba.
This fisherman had three children. The first, a daughter, was called Daukoru. The second, a boy, was Ayebaitari, christened Joseph and fondly called Sefu. The third, a girl, was named Elizabeth which was shortened to Liza. Now, I am swiftly reminded that I once had an aunt who used to go by the name Daukoru. She was my father’s elder sister. She had three sons and a daughter. She was very fond of me, her younger brother’s first son, his carbon copy. And so I became fond of her too. She was quite popular in Nembe. She brought dignity to her person when she was sober. But when she took a glass of wine, you couldn’t miss it on her breath and in her merriness.
My father was even more besotted with her. In point of fact, my father extended to the children she left behind the love he couldn’t show his sister. One day, someone came to the house and said Daukoru was dead. I was nonplussed. My father was grief-stricken. He rushed from Goodhead’s house at Bassambiri, disconsolate in his walk across the bridge to Obolomabiri, and to his zinc house at Agbutubu Polo where his sister lived. He did not want me to go with him. He did not want me to see his tears. I could feel him even from a distance.
What took the grief out of my father was the manner of Daukoru’s death. According to eye witnesses, she was seated before the fire on that low stool the Nembe call abengada. The fire was out. But my aunt was bent over her knees, arms stretched over her head, stifled by her own top that she was obviously trying to remove. In other words, she died in the act of removing her dress on account of the heat. She suffocated to death, unable to summon the strength even to undress. She was that tired, that frustrated about life.
The first of my aunt’s sons, Ibaralanyo, enlisted in the army, fought the Nigeria-Biafra civil war, survived to tell the story in spite of a nasal condition he suffered after he was nearly crushed to death by a trailer. He would come to our house in Lagos and regale us with stories about his exploits around the world. My father would listen to him with a keen ear, endure a few guffaws, and enjoy an uproarious laugh when he recalled the visit with us later. That was how we listened to an adventurous story by Ibaralanyo about Choba. We didn’t know he meant Choba because throughout the story he talked about Sober. That was the funny thing about the story.
Don’t laugh. It’s not a laughing matter. As for Daukoru’s second son, Biambo, I will be frank with you. I have never seen a more fervent seeker of the face of God. Biambo prayed all night, every other night. The entire neighbourhood was weary with the sound of his voice, and this voice was coming from our room. Biambo wore a long white garment almost all the time. His shirts were white. His shorts were white. His pants were white on the clothesline. He had no use for slippers and sandals and shoes. He preferred to walk barefoot. He would trot from our house along Ojo Road to somewhere beyond Boundary where his church was waiting for him. If anybody tells me that Biambo does not pray anymore, now that he is happily married with children of his own, I will be amazed.
Daukoru’s third son was a loveable, ebony-skinned lad with walnut eyes, a warm smile, and knock knees. He quickly came to understand life as a challenge, and took it frontally. He made brilliant results in school, determined to read Chemistry. But then, he passed the exams into the Nigerian Military School, Zaria, and decided to become a career naval officer. It was good to hear in those days that Walter was in England, or India or America. Whenever he came home, everywhere he turned, someone wanted to touch him. If Walter walked into your house and took a seat, you could tell that story to an admiring audience for a long time. Walter went on to become Military Administrator in a virgin Nigerian state. The rest, as they say, is history.
Daukoru’s only daughter, Elizabeth, is my friend. She came to stay with me for a few days when my mother died, and she did her best to make me happy with a few silly jokes and so much laughter. When I call her Karibota, she would stop laughing. She does not like her Nembe name. Don’t ask me why. When Elizabeth came into my house and saw the photo of her beloved uncle propped against the wall, the first thing she said took me by surprise.
Nama bei!
I stopped in my valiant strides and took a second look at my first cousin.
Why did you say that?
Elizabeth was blunt in her revelation.
Is that not what he used to say? In all the time I knew my uncle, that’s the most common expression from him.
Nama bei!
She was correct. Whenever my father got excited about somebody, he called the person an animal, so to speak. If my father ever met with Olusegun Obasanjo, for instance, that is the title my father would promptly give the farmer. It is not derogatory at all. It is a definite description. As Obasanjo himself would put it, it’s all about this animal called man.
Nama bei!
I know of a few friends and family who have canvassed the opinion that my father may have distressed himself too much on chieftaincy matters, going so far as to surmise that the daily turbulence over his pending installation as Chief Joseph Ayebaitari Owei-Ilagha may have led to his demise in the end. They may be right. When you come to think of it, they may not be too far from the truth.
The fact of the matter is that Papa confided in me. All he wanted was the sum of one hundred thousand naira to meet the expenses of becoming a chief in Nembe. He wrote a series of letters to the first Military Administrator of Ebonyi State at the time, all to no avail. In other words, Walter Feghabo, a captain in the Nigerian Navy and beloved nephew of my father who was occupying that exalted office, did not quite recognize the urgency behind my father’s request.
To be fair to Walter, he commandeered a helicopter to fly my father from the Venerable Residence, Tombi, Nembe, to the hospital along Eastern Bypass in Port Harcourt where Papa gave up the friendly ghost. If I tell you the degree of anxiety my father suffered after Walter furnished our house at Marine Base, Port Harcourt, you will be amazed. The young man felt he had done everything he could for his uncle, and became unreachable.
He awarded a contract to a certain Larry to ensure that my father was comfortable. He had even bought Papa a Mercedes Benz and sent Sam Kierema, alias SK, to supervise the construction of my father’s house in Nembe. So, what was the old man’s problem? Does he have to announce to everybody that he is the Governor’s Father? And, indeed, my father was telling everyone who had an ear that he was the Governor’s Father. SK did such a good job that, by the time he was through with supervising the construction of my father’s house, he had built his own house as well.
My father was the proudest man in the universe when Walter Feghabo, his first son, took a wife. But take this as an aside. I am only whispering to you, my hand cupped over your ear. Walter was his elder sister’s third son. I told you that before, didn’t I? Anyway, my father was so besotted with Walter that he never found his nephew wanting at any time.
Everything Walter did was good. Walter’s wishes came first. Everything to do with Walter was to be given priority. It was as if my father lived to see Walter satisfied in all ramifications. It was as if he had been waiting for the day Walter would marry, so he could sit beside him on the high table, in his honourable capacity as father of the groom.
That day came and my father dressed in a new woolly black angapu with the head of a lion branded all over it. He wore light brown trousers upon deep brown brogues, his grip firm on the handle of his staff. He could not stop staring at his name in the wedding programme, a confirmation of the distinctive role he had to play at this grand and colourful event.
Whatever anyone said, he would have a word of advice for the new couple, with specific reference to his son. My father went into full flight as soon as he was called upon to speak, as soon as the microphone entered his hand. He stood on one spot and bounced a few times in his shoes, cleared his throat gutturally, passed his tongue over his lips swiftly, like a flash of lightening, and called out the traditional praise title of the Nembe Kingdom with great flourish.
Kala Ekulema, Nembe
Kala Ekulema, Nembe
Ama doko, doko, doko, biokpo
Angala duba duba arukaragha!
There was a stir among the distinguished audience when my father’s deep baritone boomed through the loud speakers of that hall. There was a fresh merriment in the air. It flushed through the doors and floated along Emekuku and the adjoining streets, like a pleasant aroma.
Even the visitors who did not know the meaning of one word in that exaltation were moved by the sheer power of my father speaking in tongues, speaking the oldest language on the face of the earth, the language of Eden, with absolute self-possession. Just when everyone was wondering what my father would say next, the grammarian broke out with another salvo, calling for the big masquerade to be brought under control.
Owu bei kori e.
Owu bei kori e.
Owu bei koribo, koribo, koribo
Miene gho iyai bei iyorobo anga te
Owubei kori wapre e!
Owu e! Owu e!
The last line was echoed by every son and daughter of Nembe stock under the roof of that hall that day. It reverberated down the aisles, through the hall, and out into the open ears of the world. My father was not finished. My father had not even started.
Wa mienyo muno, wa miengha nyo ma?
Wa mienyo me!
Again, the last line came as a chorus, every Nembe voice giving assurance that, yes, we shall conquer. My father kept his protocol short. He went straight to the heart of his speech. He was happy to speak at his son’s wedding, he said, and he was proud to say so because it would now become clear to one and all that he was the Governor’s Father.
A great murmur of delight swept over the multitude, like a gladsome wave embracing the shore. Walter could not hide his smile. He did not know whether to be happy or to feel embarrassed. The old man just would not stop being so personal, so possessive, in public. Couldn’t he talk about anything else?
But my father had since gone into idiom, dropping clement polysyllabic bombs on the willing heads of the multitude like solemn drops of Pentecost, and tickling everyone in the ribs. My father could not be bothered. He unleashed another outbreak of bombastic concatenations that caused the very air we breathe to shudder.
Anyone who didn’t know why my father was called Michael West in his younger days could now understand why. Every other big word hiding in the English dictionary was on parade that day, and my father demonstrated just how big every word is by bobbing his head along with the weight of every syllable.
It was clear that my father would never exhaust himself for as long as the microphone remained in his hand, and so the master of ceremonies sneaked to his side, following the distant prompting of Walter, and signalled Michael West that it was time to close this golden wedding speech. My father glared at the fellow, his moustache as busy as the whiskers of a wild cat. How dare you stop me from talking at my son’s wedding? Who are you?
And a fresh shower of giggles rained down on the holy assembly, tickling it to tatters. In the end, my father gave his paternal homily to the couple. My son will make a good husband, he said. The family of this woman by his side, my new daughter, can enjoy their sleep. Walter will make a good husband. The boy is good, I assure you. The boy is good.
The ovation was thunderous when my father finally placed the microphone on the table, rather than give it to the MC, wiped his lips one more time, took his exalted place on the high table, and picked up his glass of water. He took greetings from some members of the high table, waved at the admiring congregation of saints, and shook hands with Walter. Then he settled down to await his share of food and wine with a ready appetite. There was no doubt that he slept well that night.
