My "papa", this is for him. My papa is my father, he wasn't called papa because he was old, but somehow those who were close to him called him that, thinking about it now I would say my papa really outlived life at such a young age and though his life ended just at the peak and prime of his life, he lived the years he had in full and in pursuit of what he truly loved. Not everyone would have a biography written about them but today I want to tell the story of a man who truly outlived himself.
I can't recall telling anyone this side of my story on why, how or when I started writing, but thinking about it closely now, I can say I am the writer I am today because of him. I do not have many memories of my papa, because he had passed on when I was just five years old, but I grew up seeing books he owned that he went through the effort of making a stamp that had "Ogaba's family library" inscribed which he imprinted on his books. I also grew up seeing pictures of him in different countries where he represented Nigeria in some sort of conferences. There is this letter written to my father by the Metropolitan Police Scotland Yard thanking him for his role in a case in 1993.
I had asked my mom which country she would love to visit when we could afford that for her since she never had the opportunity to travel with my papa as she was committed to taking care of the home, she had said "Germany". The reason being she wants to visit the country where her husband suitcase got missing, well, I found a letter to back up her claims which my dad had written to the embassy requesting a new passport as his documents where all in the suitcase that got missing.
While going through his things we had at home, I also saw a card whom he had addressed to my mom and he had written "To my darling wife, Josephine", I know he didn't just marry her because in their time, matchmaking was done before love grew, I now know that he loved her, we saw the gifts he had bought for her too, there is one that has outlived his demise, it is a framed art of her. When he had gotten it for her, the image that artist drew were almost like he was drawing my mother when she had beautifully aged, we teased that picture a lot when growing up, we would say "na wa o, this artist draw mommy when she don old".
Looking back, I would say my dad is not here anymore, at least for the last twenty four years, but this art is here with us, it has been with us before she had any gray hair show up, it is here now even as we see the gray hairs sprouting all over, it is a gift that he has given to stay with her and us through these years without him.
I had said, there isn't a lot of memories I have of my father, but I have this one memory of him, that memory had stayed with me through these years, it is the memory of a particular night, my dad was having his dinner and I was sitting with him on this beautiful rug we called a "flying carpet", did it fly, "No, not at all", but we attributed it to the magical flying carpet in Alaadin. So, I and my papa was sitting outside as he was having his dinner and he taught me how to count in my language, he may have taught me up to the number ten but right now I can only remember the first three numbers, "ehe, epa, eta" I cannot forget these three numbers even if I tried. There may not have been a magical flying carpet but there was something truly magical about that night, maybe that is why from all the memories I could have had of my papa, it was this particular memory that had stayed with me all these years.
There are days, I wonder how life would have unfolded if he hadn't passed on, would my friends be my friends, would my schoolmates be my schoolmates or would I have known the people I know today from my neighborhood, work and school?. It is even tougher when you grow up seeing all these pictures of your beloved father in all the places you dream to visit, and he didn't just go to those places just for pleasure but his work took him there, at that stage of his career, I wondered if he had lived past when he had died if more could have been achieved, would I have even become a writer, would this story be told and the several others I have written in previous years, would my dream of attending the New York Film Academy or the London Film School been easily achieved or would I have even have those dreams at all?. Would I have even been a writer?
Now, on why, how or when I started writing, I think about it now and I feel losing him and not even understanding what had happened started something inside of me. I can't even explain it. I was five years old but my imagination was very vivid and I remember the stories that I would create in my head, I found an escape in my head, where I could keep him alive, where I could bring all these amazing characters to life. Soon, my head couldn't contain these stories, so I started telling these stories to others verbally, I remember how in my junior secondary class back when I was in a boarding house, I would tell my seniors or mates that I had watched an interesting movie during the holidays and I would cook the perfect story of a movie that never existed anywhere, I would watch in excitement how their emotions were stirred depending on the theme of the movie I told them. Storytelling became an escape from my head for me, telling stories to others meant I could bring those characters in my head to live in the minds of others and I found happiness telling stories. But, telling stories was not enough, there were times I wanted to revisit a particular story I had told and because I had just conjured them on the spot, I would have a lot of missing scenes when I want to retell to others, so I started writing. Writing meant I would have these characters, places and emotions stay guarded in ink on paper and I could always visit them as often as I like and I can share these stories as many times as I would want, so, began how I started writing.
Writing is powerful to me, it is my voice, my experience, it is my life, more than that, now I believe writing was God's gift to me to take the five year old Ene through the stages of grief, I may not have understood it then but now I see how storytelling had shaped all that I have pursued and still pursue today. I am so grateful to be blessed with this gift.