I LIVED WITH HERCULES: THE MAN I CALLED FATHER

Madu A Omekara circa 1977

I lay under the bright blue umbrella trying hard not to get sunburned. A  book about Columbus's impact on the new world—The Americas lay open, begging me to read, but my thoughts stretched down the block and wrapped around the corner. I'm lying on a beautiful beach in the Gulf of México, the Yucatán Peninsula. It's spring but temperatures here oscillate between 38℃ to 42℃. There is enough heat to barbecue anything you want. It's been 26 years, and I still wonder how he did it.

 Hercules, that's who I liken his strength to. His mental strength. He shouldered everyone's burden and made it his own. From siblings to cousins, nephews, nieces, and whole villages. I don't know how he managed, but he did it without breaking a sweat. His life was about family and service to others. In retrospect, I still marvel at how a human could be so selfless.

When the war happened, you know that war we are forbidden to talk about. Often spoken only in whispers under the cloak of the dark on the national stage. In that war, a part of my native land chose to secede from the rest and was severely punished for such audacity. After the war, poverty ravaged the lands of my ancestors. Penury took residence and many in the region lived in squalor. There were stories of vultures descending to scavenge human carcasses many moons after the war ended.

The war destroyed the physical infrastructure, economy, and the esteem of the region. It not only financially impoverished many but emotionally handicapped millions. Morale was low, and Post-traumatic disorders abound, but no one was treated. Who could afford therapy when millions barely had something to eat.

One sunny day, in 1970, our neighbors in a small town we had temporarily settled in post-war— Umauhia,  a town many sought refuge after Enugu the capital city of  Biafra fell. Were making a ruckus, demanding justice for a trespasser, and brought him to my father. Apparently, this "thief" as they labeled him, was stealing food from our pot in the kitchen. "No, that's not a thief" my father protested. "That's my nephew." His nephew, my cousin had walked miles from his village, hungry, desperate, and despondent, and just headed for the kitchen which was a communal kitchen.

Father stepped in and helped as many as he could but he was only one man. And there were too many hungry and deprived people. You may wonder why I liken him to Hercules a Roman God, instead of an equivalent in my native land. The truth is,  the story of the Gods of my ancestors was destroyed. A story I would tell another day. So, now I mostly think of "foreign"

This is a glimpse of a man I adored like none other. He taught me a lot about life and was my hero. He did not talk much but led by example. His actions spoke louder than words—My Father. My Papa. Dad. He was Hercules if I ever saw one. They say a girl's first true love is her father and when she grows up, she seeks partners with similar traits to him. He was my first true love. 

Common knowledge is you never let your children know who is your favorite, but he let the world know I was his. You see dad did not marry early, not until he was well into his forties, because, you guessed it, he was taking care of the clan, so when I was born he loved me like none other. Finally, he had his own child, his flesh and blood. He loved me so much, that he called me— Nne, he believed I was his mother's reincarnate.  The story he told was before I was born, his mother appeared to him in a dream and said "Aham, I'm coming back"

My dad was the silent but strong type, humble and unassuming. A natural leader and nurturer at the same time. Challenges did not faze him. In fact, I think he even sought them out. For as long as I remember he continued to carry the clan on his shoulders. And never flinched.  But these days I wonder if he could have opted for another life if he had a choice. 

Dad was orphaned early in life so he learned early to be independent and assist his siblings. And carried on to every relative of his, he never stopped until he breathed his last. He was always about others.  Selfless until the very end.

Growing up our home was always full of those people. His siblings, cousins, nephews and nieces, distant relatives, and pretty much everybody. To this day, I am still in awe of his selflessness. There was a running joke in our community back then "If you arrived in Lagos and had nowhere to go, "Go to De Aham's place" He was not a wealthy man by any means, but he was rich in spirit.

Dad was a civil servant. An ordinary middle-class man, but he did extraordinary things.  Sometimes, we would have as many as ten of his relatives living with us. He would find them jobs and after two years sometimes five or longer, he would get them a place to stay and pay the initial rent. I remember my mum would buy them the initial necessary kitchen items. Yes, my father did all that. This does not include all those cousins he put through school. I mean paid school fees until they graduated high school.

It is hard to understand sometimes, the kind of sacrifices he made. He denied himself a lot of things. and us too. My sister and I used to joke that,  when some of our friends took trips to London for summer holidays, something we could have afforded if my dad was not hell-bent on helping the whole village. Back then the Nigerian economy was really good, and the British pound sterling was at par with the Naira. The basic traveling allowance (BTA) was a mere N200. 

Let me give you a little background. My ancestral home is in Southeastern Nigeria and from 1967 -1970 there was a civil war. Ngozi Chimamanda Adichie's book "Half of a Yellow Sun" chronicles some of our experiences. Chinua Achebe's book "There was a Country," tells much more about the journey of my people before and during that time and the complexities of being Igbo in Nigeria. After the war, the whole region was decapitated, and there was extreme poverty everywhere.

While education was free in other parts of the country, it was not in the Southeastern region. There was no basic FREE education, So, people like my father who returned to Lagos to their Federal service jobs were the lucky ones. And he saw it as his responsibility to help his whole village.

One time I needed some documents verified at the Nigerian embassy in Washington D.C for a new job in the Bahamas. You know how the bureaucracy in these places can be. I had traveled from Trinidad and was getting frustrated by the delays. The consulate officer to sign my document was not in the office and I had to wait. Then someone called out my last name. It was another officer looking through the requests, who recognized my name, He asked me if I was related to a man with the same name, and told me things about my father I did not even know. That was the kind of man he was. So, the officer facilitated my request and insisted on buying me lunch. It was his way of paying it forward.    

My father did not have too much, but he gave from the little he had, and always taught us to share. He was not a perfect man by any means, nobody is perfect but he was a selfless human being and always stood for justice. And treated everyone with kindness and respect. Always recognized the humanity in everyone. And for that, I will always be grateful.

My sister and I were mulling over our dad's life the other day and a story popped up. There was this aunty, not mum's sister or dad's. In Nigeria, everyone older than you is an aunty. This aunty was the wife of my dad's cousin. And dad's cousin had decided to marry another wife because, his wife had only one child— a son, and he wanted more children. 

Dad tried to discourage him but he did not budge, he threw his wife out. Yeah, that's what happens in Nigeria, when the man no longer wants you he can ask you to leave, or accept whatever he chooses to deal you with. The house and the children, and everything therein belongs to the man. And there are limited laws to give the woman recompense. If you are looking for a deeply patriarchal society, look no further, Nigeria is in the top three. 

So this aunty had to come live with us, while my dad tried to talk some sense into his cousin. He eventually took her back but kept the second wife. I think they eventually had a second child another son. The aunty was just happy to stay married. That's the culture, divorce is taboo.  Eventually, I think she summoned the courage and left him.   Kudos to her, but it was not an easy thing to do, not back then not even now. Many women stay in physically, and emotionally abusive relationships because they don't want to rock the boat of oppressive patriarchal culture. Girls are groomed/conditioned/taught to persevere and accept it as their "cross" in life. 

As one grows older, one starts to reflect on many things, and how my dad lived his life is one of those things reflected on. This year the 26th year since his passing, I do remember his life. And often wonder if he could have chosen a different life, a life where he was able to live out his dreams, or what I think may have been his dreams. He used to enjoy writing, and given the opportunities, maybe he would have written many great stories.