AN OVATION FOR JIKA
“From all indications,” said Jika Attöh. He was dark, and dapper. He spoke English with an uncommon fluency. We also communicated in Igbo, which made me wonder if he was of the ethnic group. It was in answer to my question that he said, “From all indications.” I failed to see the indications, for neither Jika nor Attöh was Igbo. The year was 1976. We were standing in line inside a hall at the Faculty of Arts building of the University of Ife (Obafemi Awolowo University), all freshmen, waiting to register for our courses in the English Department. Jika told me he was from Onitsha, which was about 15 kilometres from my hometown of Abatete. His full name was Ifejika Michael Elvis Attöh. Of the Attöh surname, he explained that the origin was Ghanaian. He warned that it wasn’t spelt correctly unless two dots hung over the ö in it! Our friendship started on that day.
When on October 25, 2023, Ikeddy Isiguzo called for my confirmation of the terrible news, I instantly told him to perish the thought. “I tagged Jika to a WhatsApp message I posted this morning,” I said. Then I spoke more sensibly: “Who told you?” The story had appeared on a WhatsApp forum. I advised that he played no part in spreading it without confirmation. I dialled Jika’s number, expecting to hear the usual Babandidi or Misti Shooks, but it rang out. The prospect of calling his wife carpeted me. I tried a mutual friend’s number in Enugu without connecting. Less than ten minutes later, Oseloka Zikora called. “Terrible news,” he said in a subdued voice. He was in Namibia. Jika’s wife had got him by WhatsApp and, could he please pass the message on to Babandidi? Suddenly, calls started pouring in from all over, to ask if it was true, or to express condolences.
By the following day, social and electronic media were full of tributes. What was I to do? Write a tribute? I couldn’t even pass any comments on the ones that I managed to read. I was in denial, believing that escaping into myself would clean the past day’s slate of demise, of the loss of a dear friend and brother. Then I remembered with regret that I was to have been in Enugu on Friday, September 29, 2023, for an Ohanaeze Ndigbo event in honour of past Igbo leaders, including Dr. Michael Okpara, Sir Louis Phillip Odumegwu Ojukwu, General Aguiyi-Ironsi, General Odumegwu-Ojukwu, and others. I had told Jika that I was mulling over attending. I had a book on Ironsi and another on Ojukwu that could be useful to those desirous of information on those listed for posthumous honours.
Jika responded thus on September 25: “No matter how history judges them eventually, these are undoubtedly illustrious Igbo men. And, as my village elders would say, if outsiders don’t celebrate you, it's legit to celebrate yourself. Ohanaeze should honour their own, and Babandidi should display his monumental works on these heroes at the event. Logical reasoning. I salute you again, my esteemed brother.”
I ditched the trip. Recalling this, a shaft of pain seared through my essence. Had I made it, I would have met Jika alive. I probably would have stayed on in the Coal City, affording solace and holding his hand as he transited into immortality. Now, all I can manage is to celebrate him. Yet, this cannot come easy because mourning is not exactly like downing choice liquor. Looking at the past and imagining the future, all I can do today is to wish Jika peace and his family solace. But because it amounts to a bounden duty, I must write some words about my brother and bosom friend. However, to make head or tail out of this assignment, it’s critical to start by invoking the memories of two great Nigerians that left imprints on the sands of Nigerian history.
They are Alhaji Shehu Musa (1935-2008) and Professor Ben Obumselu (1930-2017). Alhaji Shehu was Secretary to the Government of the Federation (SGF) during the Shehu Shagari presidency. Dr. Obumselu was an eminent professor of Poetry, and an Igbo leader. In one of the last interviews Alhaji Shehu granted, he deeply lamented to the Vanguard that all his dear friends had died, leaving him alone on Mother Earth. I didn’t quite put his lamentation in context. If God granted him longevity, I wondered, what was the point of whining about departed friends? I now know better. Professor Obumselu was not just a friend but also a mentor. Visiting his Lagos home one day, we spent time discussing a whole range of topics, including his late friend, the poet Christopher Okigbo. Then a young man came in who, after salutations, complained that a project to benefit younger people that the professor had initiated was being sabotaged by those who should be at its cutting edge.
I thought Obumselu would flare up. Instead, he smiled and addressed the young man. “Listen,” he said. “Many thanks for your efforts. I am not bothered by what the spoilers are up to. I cannot wait to go in and cherish the company of my grandchildren.” The man soon left, pocketing some money Obumselu had given him. Behind his back, Obumselu emphasised that time spent with his grandchildren now had the most meaning to him. I couldn’t understand. I now know better.
To return to Jika Attöh, our friendship blossomed. We went to and came from lectures mostly together. The same thing applied to other campus activities that captured our interest, like grabbing a spicy meal at the Bukateria, or listening to the fireworks of academics during the Background Lectures series. When vacation came, we often travelled East together and camped first at their family home at No 10 Ibegbu Street, Inland Town, Onitsha, where Jika’s mother fussed over us, and prepared all the dishes that made us long for more. After we had graduated, Jika and I referred to our mothers by their first names. Although his mother was Nne O’dii or O’dii’s mother to everyone else, she was simply Ememgini to us. In my book, Ememgini means My Innocence Should Be SelfEvident. My mother was Agwaniru – You Don’t Mess With Me! We discussed them with love. They were two poor, petty trading widows deeply in love with their offspring. Jika’s father, a former policeman, died when he was an adolescent, leaving behind Ememgini, Jika, and his older brother, Anthony Okwudili better known as Tony O'dii. It was largely by her efforts that they grew up in Abakaliki, finishing primary and secondary school education.